The Russian Prince
by canyr12
Summary: Karolek confronts his mistakes. Finished! Please, PLEASE RR
1. The Russian Prince

AN: All familiar Highlander characters (Connor, Duncan, Darius, and Grayson) belong to someone other than me.Rysher or Garamont, I suppose. Karolek, Erich, and others are mine. I confess that the history of the Russian Imperial family is not accurate.  
  
This is set in an alternate reality created by Harry Turtledove in his book series "The Great War" and "American Empire," which assume that the South has won the Civil War and that the United States and Confederate States are two different countries. WWI has raged between the allied powers of the US and Imperial Germany, who have defeated the CSA, France, Canada, and Great Britain. The Depression is limping along, and tensions are mounting between the two victors of the Great War. The Jacobsens and the setting belong to Mr. Turtledove. For more information on the setting of the story, I suggest reading the books or visiting the Del Ray site courtesy of Random House.  
  
Basically, I'm stuck at the point where the story ends thus far. I don't know where exactly to go next and would welcome some ideas. Flames will be tossed out with the bat found in my apartment toilet.  
  
Washington, DC 1935  
  
The coffee shop was much as he remembered it being when he'd come through Washington shortly after the Great War. Much of the world around him had changed. Washington was no longer a city of rubble, shelled to within an inch of its life. The sense of danger from falling bombs and rifle shots had faded away, replaced with a newer, different sort of danger. This was more the danger of not having money enough to put food on the table, pay rent on a flat, to survive from day to day. The fear that came with falling employment and failing banks.  
  
Not much about Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov had changed in the past 18 years since the end of the Great War. Oh sure, he'd let his close cropped corn-silk-blond hair grow into a ponytail again. His name was different, he'd gone by Romanov during the war but was calling himself Nikailov now. He was no longer carrying a sniper's rifle or wearing Captain's bars on his shoulders. Indeed, he'd severed all ties to his Great War identity. He was pretending to be his own son, and all his papers declared him to be 18, younger than his physical age of 21, and much younger than his actual age of 416.  
  
His long blond hair was tied back from his head by a simple leather string, revealing the same lightly tanned skin and steel gray eyes. Karolek didn't look a day older than he had when he'd been assigned as a sniper to Colonel Morrell in Tennessee from his posting in the Rocky Mountains in Canada, and he never would.  
  
Indeed, because of that one quirk in his physiology, he could no longer contact anyone from that life. It would be a little too obvious that the boy sniper hadn't aged at all in the almost 20 years since the war, since everyone else he'd served with would be on their way to mid-40's by now. A painful fact, but one that had to be dealt with, which is why his war ribbons and medals were packed away in a box instead of on his coat, the way many other war veterans wore theirs. Packed away with medals and decorations, mementos of his many past lives and past wars.  
  
After the war he'd met with Connor, who'd served his war as an artillery man on the Roanoke front, at this little coffee shop. Connor had gone back to New York, Karolek had gone wandering in the vast expanses of the west. With a new set of papers, he'd come back to Washington, with idle plans of going back to Russia to see what remained of his boyhood home in Moscow. With the world the way it was now, however, he wondered whether that was a wise plan or not. Nikolai held a tenuous grip on power at most these days, and visiting a royal palace was asking for trouble. Still, he'd not seen the tsar since he was still the 20 year old tsarevich, and he'd never met Nikolai's son, the new tsarevich Alexei. Maybe a trip would be in order, soon.  
  
A tiny bell jingled, announcing his entry to the shop. He found himself a seat at an open table in the corner. The woman who ran the shop..Nellie, if he remembered correctly, came up and asked him for his order.  
  
"Bacon and egg sandwich and some coffee, light, please ma'am." Karolek requested, offering the woman what was supposed to be a charming smile. From his experience here in the past, he got the feeling that there wasn't much that Nellie liked about men in general. Best to be as polite and cheerful as he possibly could.  
  
"Coming right up." Nellie replied brusquely, heading for the back.  
  
Sitting one table over, Clara Jacobsen cocked her head slightly to look at the young man in the corner. The man's accent, which defied classification as either Yankee or Confederate, had the faintest touches of something else she couldn't quite identify. Living where she did, and doing her homework in the coffee shop, she'd heard plenty of accents, but the odd touches from this one she couldn't place. It sounded vaguely European, which for a Washington DC coffee shop was exotic. The man was young and handsome, with unfashionably long blond hair tied back loosely from his face. On anyone else, Clara decided, this would look silly or wrong, but somehow it seemed to fit the mysterious stranger. He had been wearing a long dark coat which reached all the way to mid calf when he'd entered, this was now carefully hung from a peg in the wall, along with a cloth newsboy's hat. This left him dressed in dark pants and a white button down shirt. He looked young, and the fact that he was neatly dressed and eating in a coffee house suggested that he probably had some money or a job, rare for these days.  
  
In truth, despite the market crash, Karolek had no reason to worry about money and likely never would. The market had been too questionable for him to put much money into it, so most of his substantial fortune was in gold in a few strategically placed vaults around the world. And, of course, there was the small matter of the estate and palace that accompanied his title in Imperial Russia.  
  
Smiling lightly at the young girl who had been watching him, Karolek turned his attention to the papers he'd brought into the coffee house. Nellie returned in short order with his food and coffee, placing it down on the table. "Here you are."  
  
"Thank you, ma'am." Karolek said with another smile, nodding his head politely. He placed the coins for his meal on the table, so that the woman would be able to see that he had no plans on stiffing her for the meal.  
  
Nellie nodded distantly at the young man with the strange accent, before moving on to deal with a group with a slightly more garden variety one. A table of men with Georgian accents were in one of the other corners, most of whom were working on their second cups of coffee and finishing up the remnants of their breakfasts.  
  
As she was moving forward to ask if any of them were interested in a third cup, she heard one of the men, an older man with a purple heart ribbon on his jacket, tell one of his friends, "There was a man who ran a cobbler's place just across the way. Real nice fellow, did a smart job on my boots. Shop's all closed up. Wonder what happened to him."  
  
The damn on Nellie's tightly reigned control broke, and she began sobbing hysterically in the middle of the coffee shop. Hal's shop was closed because Hal was busy dying in the Veteran's Hospital across town. Edna had been unable to come in and run the coffee shop today, which was why she was here instead of there. The whole thing was wretchedly unfair, and all of the self control she'd been using to get to this point simply deteriorated.  
  
The table of Confederates stared blankly, unsure what had set the owner off and equally unsure as to what to do. The few other customers were equally as flabbergasted. Clara abandoned her school books and raced to her mother, trying desperately to find out what was wrong.  
  
Karolek, who in 416 years of living had seen more than a few crises and nervous breakdowns, decided to take charge. Putting his papers and the remains of his breakfast aside, he went over and knelt next to Clara and Nellie on the floor. "Is your mother all right, miss?" Clara's large blue eyes turned to meet the gunmetal gray ones that looked at her with such concern. "I.I don't know." She brushed a stray strand of brown hair out of her eyes. "I've never seen her like this before."  
  
Realizing that Clara was on the verge of hysterics as well, Karolek put a calming hand on her arm. "It's all right, miss. It will be all right." He repeated calmly. "Do you live in this building or a flat elsewhere?"  
  
"Upstairs." Clara responded hesitantly. She didn't know why, but for some reason the calm demeanor of this mysterious stranger was enough to garner her trust and make her calm herself.  
  
Offering a hesitant smile, Karolek started to give Clara some instructions. "All right. Take your mother upstairs, put her to bed, and sit with her until she calms down a bit. If she falls asleep, all the better, but stay with her until she's calm or asleep."  
  
"What about the shop?" Clara asked. "We can't afford to have it closed."  
  
"I can run the shop by myself until your mother calms back down. If she does, come down and help me." He patted her shoulder. "I'm a pretty decent cook, and I've been a waiter once or twice before." Standing and helping a still sobbing Nellie to do the same, he transferred her weight from him to Clara. "Go on, get your mother upstairs. All your money will still be here when you come back."  
  
Clara guided a barely functioning Nellie up the stairs to their living quarters, leaving Karolek in charge of a stupefied room. Footsteps echoing in the quiet, he went over to the table he'd been sitting at and took his jacket and hat off of the hook. Picking up the papers and plate, he went through the small door that led to the kitchen area and set everything down in there. He took a towel from a small stack and tucked it into his belt as an apron, and hung another to use for his hands and wiping up.  
  
He walked back into the main room, rolling up the sleeves of his button down shirt. Speaking into the silence, he asked, "Anyone want a refill on their coffee?"  
  
One man sitting in the corner cautiously raised his hand, and Karolek brought the pot over to fill the man's cup again. The Confederates at the large table asked for their bill, which he quickly totaled and took. One man, the one who had been speaking about Hal, said to Karolek, "I hope the lady is ok. Please, tell her we're sorry for anything we might have done to upset her."  
  
"I'll do that." Karolek promised, as the small knot of men drifted out. He quickly fell into the rhythm of the shop, cooking and serving as if he'd been doing it all of his life. Years counted for a lot when it came to handling crises.  
  
About 90 minutes later, the young girl came back downstairs. Her own eyes were red rimmed, as if she too had been crying. She saw that only one customer was in the place, a young woman in a nurse's uniform who was eating ham and eggs and reading a dime novel. The stranger, who had a towel tucked into his neat black pants like an apron, was moving about the room straightening up. He was wiping down some of the tables that had been in use earlier, clearing away plates to the back to be washed.  
  
Karolek heard the footsteps and turned to see the young girl. She was probably about 14 or 15 or so, pretty in her own way with long brown hair and dark brown eyes. He studiously ignored the signs that she had been crying herself, and asked, "Is your mother all right, miss?"  
  
Clara shrugged her shoulders in a decidedly French gesture for a girl form Washington. "I don't know, really. She's asleep." She went to the pot of coffee and poured herself a cup, lacing it heavily with sugar and milk. "Thank you for all your help, Mister?"  
  
"Nikailov." Karolek answered. "Karolek Nikailov." He shrugged his own shoulders and offered a half smile. "-It was not a problem. I was happy to help.-" He wanted to smack himself, from the look on the girl's face that he'd spoken in Russian without even realizing it. "It wasn't a problem. I was happy to step up and help."  
  
"Oh. I'm Clara, Clara Jacobsen." Clara responded. "What language was that? I don't think I've ever heard it before. It's not German?'  
  
"Nyet." Karolek answered cheekily. "Not German. Russian, actually."  
  
"Russian?" Clara asked, astonished. "Where on earth did you learn Russian?"  
  
Stopping his bussing of tables, Karolek went and poured himself his own cup of coffee. "From my father. He was born in Moscow, came to the United States when he was a young boy. He was a sniper during the war. Ate at this very café when he came through Washington on his way from Tennessee, after it was taken back from the Confederates." He neglected to mention that his 'father' was really him, under a much different name.  
  
"Your father was a sniper during the war?" Clara asked. "Mine was a spy."  
  
"A spy, really?" Karolek repeated with wide eyes. He never would have guessed that Hal Jacobsen was a spy. He supposed that made him a good one.  
  
"Yeah." Clara said proudly. "He received the Distinguished Service Medal from Teddy Roosevelt and everything."  
  
"Sounds like you're real proud of him." Karolek acknowledged. He would let this girl have her pride. Hearing the catch in her voice, he decided to press. "Is that what your mother was so upset about?"  
  
Clara nodded, wiping a threatening tear from her eye. She would not allow herself to cry in front of the handsome stranger. "I suppose so." She took a calming sip of coffee. "He's dying. At the Veteran's Hospital. The doctors say it is from smoking too many cigarettes, he has a carcinoma of the lungs." She stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar phrases that had become such a searing part of her own vocabulary.  
  
"I'm sorry to hear that, Clara." Karolek said sympathetically, patting her shoulder in a gesture of understanding. He'd buried plenty of mortal friends in his 4 centuries of living, but the slow ones were always the hardest to deal with. From his own experience, he knew the best way to cope was to stay busy. Fortunately, he was presented with a beneficial situation, as he saw several people making their way to the café for the noon hour. "We'd best get back to work. Do you want to wait tables or cook?" He decided then to keep his own cigarettes in his jacket pocket. They wouldn't kill him, but the last thing she needed was a reminder.  
  
Clara turned to see the crowd approaching. "You don't have to stay, Mister Nikailov." Clara insisted. "I can manage by myself."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure you can." Karolek said with a grin. "You seem very capable. But my mother would be appalled by my manners, God rest her soul, if I left such a lovely lady all on her own. Now, do you want to wait tables or cook?"  
  
Laughing in spite of herself, Clara capitulated. "Wait tables, I guess."  
  
"Swell." Karolek laughed in return. "And my name is Karolek. Karo if that's too long for you. I'm only 18, I'll be 19 in a few weeks. Just finished my year of service in the army." Well, only pretending to be 18, anyway. I'm physically 21 and I'm really 416. That was the one problem with appearing so physically young these days. Anywhere you went, if you had papers that said you were 18, you automatically did a year in whatever army you happened to be living under. And he had in fact just left the army again a week and a half ago, serving his year as a clerk in Kentucky. He envied Duncan his older appearance that allowed him to forge such formalities rather than actually completing them.  
  
"Right. Karolek." Clara repeated. Picking up her mother's pad, she went off to take orders from the first table as Karolek went back into the kitchen to fire up the grill and clean off some plates and cups.  
  
The pair moved through the lunch hour and early dinner rushes as if they'd been working together all their lives. Clara was relatively seasoned at working in the shop, she'd helped her mother on a few Saturdays here and there. Karolek had become a proficient cook, albeit with Russian dishes, when he'd been living in the palace of Ivan IV as a sword master before he married Irina.  
  
They were closing down the café for the night and beginning the cleanup and prep for Monday when Nellie came back downstairs. She started slightly when she saw Clara laughing and talking with the strange young blond man from the morning as the two cleaned the café. The man.boy really, was wiping down the tables as Clara swept the floor. She could smell the scent of coffee hanging in the air, as though the café had been open all evening until regular closing hours. Had this boy stayed all day to help out? "Clara?" She asked, the note of question asking 'who's the strange boy and what's he still doing here?'  
  
"Mama." Clara said, turning to face Nellie. "You're back downstairs."  
  
Karolek stopped his work cleaning tables and stood up to face Nellie. "Mrs. Jacobsen, ma'am." He tapped two fingers against his forehead, as if tipping an imaginary hat. "Glad to see you feeling better, ma'am."  
  
"Thank you." Nellie trailed off. "If you don't mind my asking, who are you and what are you doing with my daughter in my coffee shop?"  
  
Tossing the towel back over his shoulder, Karolek spread his hands to show he meant no harm or disrespect. "I'm Karolek Nikailov, Mrs. Jacobsen. I stayed on to help Clara keep the café open after she took you upstairs. She was concerned that it would be a.financial liability to close the shop for an entire day. I've been cooking while Clara waited tables, and I was just now helping her to clean up and do a little bit of preparation for work on Monday, take as much strain off you as I could." He saw Nellie's sharp look. "The last customer left only 10 minutes ago, ma'am, and there've been people in here right steady all day. I've done nothing improper with or to Clara, nor do I have any intention of doing so, ma'am. My mother, -God rest her soul,- she raised me properly."  
  
Nellie nodded at the seriousness of the young man's frank confession. He looked young, but she realized that he had a very old soul. His eyes carried the weight of someone who had packed a lot of living into his young years. "It was very kind of you to stay on like that, Mister Nikailov." Nellie admitted. "I hope you weren't being kept from a job somewhere."  
  
"No, ma'am." Karolek admitted. "I finished my tour in the army a week and a half ago. I have an interview on Monday for a possible clerk's job. That's what I did out in Kentucky."  
  
Clara chose that moment to prod Karolek's shoulder, "I'm going to ask her." Karolek made a shushing motion with his hands, but Clara chose not to notice. "Mama, what about keeping Karolek on as a cook? He did a swell job today, everyone said how good the food tasted. He washes dishes and cleans up well, and you know we could use the help."  
  
"I don't know, Clara." Nellie automatically went to answer in the negative. As she thought about it, she knew that it would be a help to have another pair of hands around the place. She wasn't as young as she used to be, and she'd been aching to spend more time with Hal while he still had time left. Clara was at school all day except Saturdays, and Edna had her own worries and life to deal with. Looking back at Karolek, she admitted, "I could use the help, but I can't afford to pay you much."  
  
Karolek shrugged his shoulders. "The money's not necessary, ma'am. Mama, she didn't much trust banks or stocks, and she saved a lot of money even with the bad times. Plus I still have what's left of my army pay. I'd be just as happy to work for room and board if that'd be more convenient for you, what with Mister Jacobsen being ill."  
  
"Clara?" Nellie asked, a note of anger in her voice. She didn't like the idea of Clara speaking out of turn about family troubles to a stranger, even a helpful and well mannered one. Their problems were their own, and she didn't want any man's charity.  
  
"What's the harm in his knowing, Mama?" Clara asked. "He wanted to know what you were so upset about this morning, that was the only thing I could think of."  
  
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek apologized. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn. My father came through the area not long after it was recaptured by the United States in the War. He spoke very highly of Mr. Jacobsen's character and your coffee shop, ma'am. He would have been very pleased to hear of the good fortune the two of you had in the years after."  
  
Nellie nodded sharply, still angered with Clara for speaking so candidly. "Your father ate here, did he? Who was he?"  
  
"Papa was a sniper from the first army in Tennessee. Worked in barrels with Colonel Morrell. He was a Captain when the war ended and he came through on his way to Delaware. Captain Karolek Romanov. Blonde hair, gray eyes, looked a lot like me."  
  
Nellie nodded thoughtfully. "I think I remember him, on account of he brought his rifle right in when he sat down." Karolek laughed and nodded, saying that was indeed his father. "You're named after him and look just like him, but your last name is different." That seemed odd to her ears, yet there was no way he could be the same man from almost 20 years ago. The boy barely looked like he might be out of his teens at the outside, and he said he had just finished his conscription tour in Kentucky.  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek said, going back to wiping down the dishes which had been soaking. "By the old Russian naming traditions, I was named Karolek Karolekovich Romanov. Seemed like a bit too much of a mouthful for me, so I changed it to Karolek Romanovich Nikailov. Nikailov was mama's name before she married papa, and with my middle name I still keep the family name alive, so to speak." Stacking the dishes, he explained further. "Papa died in an accident. Fell form a tree a year and a half ago on our farm out in Washington state. Mama had died a few years earlier, so there was no one to object."  
  
Nellie nodded at his careful explanation of strange customs. "If you're from Oregon, what are you doing back east?"  
  
"Didn't want to spend my whole life on a farm, ma'am. That was papa's peace, not mine." It was sort of true, a little bit. "Army brought me most of the way east. I decided to keep on going."  
  
"I see." She couldn't find fault with his manners, he'd obviously been raised very well. He was polite to her, always addressed her as ma'am or Mrs. Jacobsen. He'd behaved himself well with Clara, and she didn't get the sense that he was like other men, always looking for a skirt to get under. He had a good solid work ethic, common sense, and seemed like a genuinely nice, trustworthy, and well educated person. "I've a room upstairs that you can use, if you're willing to work for room and board." Despite his gender, she could find no other strong reason to dislike the boy. It was obvious Clara enjoyed his company, though not in the same way that Edna had enjoyed the company of Nicholas Kincaid. And Lord knew she could use the help in the café. If it came at a few extra sandwiches and some coffee and a stranger in the room across the hall, so be it. No other help would be as cheap or efficient, and with his nature it wasn't likely he'd stay a stranger for long.  
  
"I'd like that, ma'am." Karolek said, ducking his head shyly in a long practiced gesture designed to convince people of his pretend age. "If it's all right with you, I'll go back to my hotel room tonight to get my money's worth and fetch my things. I'll come back tomorrow after mass is done, if it's agreeable?"  
  
"Yes, that's fine." Mass. So he was Catholic. At least he was religious. And sensible about his money, as well. "Come back around 12:30, we'll get you all squared away to start on Monday."  
  
"Maybe get you a proper apron." Clara giggled.  
  
"Oh I don't know." Karolek teased back. "I think the towel is a bit more manly." Clara laughed, and even Nellie couldn't help cracking a smile. Addressing Nellie again, he said, "It's nice of you to do this for me, ma'am. I know you don't know me very well. I promise I don't have a lot of things, just some clothes and a few books, and an antique sword that's been in my family for generations."  
  
"A sword?" Nellie said dubiously.  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek lied smoothly to assure her. "It's very old, a family heirloom. It's not sharpened and stays in it's scabbard and locked up most all the time." So one of those three was true. It was indeed a family heirloom, it had belonged to his father and his grandfather before being passed to him. The rest, rather emphatically not. But it was most definitely sharpened, and rather than being locked up was presently tucked into a secret compartment in his coat. Nodding his head respectfully, he suggested, "Perhaps you should go back upstairs while Clara and I finish up down here.  
  
"Oh, very well then." Nellie conceded. "Go on back to your hotel when you're done with those dishes. Clara can lock up behind you. I'll see you tomorrow at 12:30."  
  
"Yes, ma'am. Good night, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek said politely.  
  
"I'll be up in a few minutes, Mama." Clara assured. Nellie nodded, leaving the two to finish up their cleaning. Clara turned to face Karolek. "She likes you. I didn't think she would."  
  
"Oh?" Karolek asked, stacking up the dishes to be used again on Monday. "Why's that?"  
  
Clara giggled slightly as she started to put the dishes away in their appropriate places. "Don't know exactly. Mama doesn't much seem to like men and boys in particular. Never really has, though why I couldn't tell you." Shaking her brown hair out of her eyes, she continued. "Well, I guess she liked Papa all right, and I think she likes my uncle Merle. Don't know whether or not she likes Armstrong. I sure don't."  
  
"Armstrong?" Karolek repeated. "Who's Armstrong?"  
  
"Armstrong's my nephew. My sister Edna is a lot older than me, Armstrong's her son. He's sort of spoiled and a brat." Clara explained.  
  
"How old is he?"  
  
"Eleven."  
  
Karolek laughed a bit. "Yeah, I was a brat when I was eleven too. Come to think of it, I was a brat till I served my time in the army." Clara laughed at his description of himself as a boy. Well, when he was eleven he really was a brat, and more spoiled than Armstrong could ever dream of being. "Something tells me though, you'll think he's a brat even when he's older." He pulled the towels out of his belt. "I best be going on."  
  
"I suppose so." Clara admitted as Karolek shrugged on his jacket and picked up his newspaper and his newsboy hat. She didn't really want to see the young man go, she'd enjoyed his company wholeheartedly and had never had so much fun working in the shop. Karolek had done a lot to take her mind off of her troubles. It would be almost a shame to have to go back to school on Monday while Karolek was working. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, though. Do you need any help moving in?"  
  
"No, thanks." Karolek smiled, walking to the door. "I don't have so much to carry, and if it does turn out to be more, I bet I can find someone who'll help me for some money or a meal."  
  
"I suppose." Clara repeated herself. "Take care walking home."  
  
"Take care of your mother." Karolek put his cap on as he stepped outside. "And take care of yourself, too. I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, he put his hands in his pockets and walked off towards his hotel room a few blocks away, whistling cheerfully to himself.  
  
Clara bolted the shop door behind Karolek and pulled the shades on the windows. Turning out the lights and making sure the door out of the kitchen was locked as well, she went upstairs to their rooms and the homework she hadn't finished before.  
  
  
  
It was the middle of the day when Karolek reappeared at the coffee shop. The orthodox mass he attended not far away had been slightly lackluster, but he still felt a certain obligation to the religion of his youth. He wondered it that would continue for long; he'd fallen into and out of his faith a lot during 400 years of living. He had a small rucksack full of books and papers, a small suitcase with his clothes and a flat paper parcel that held the aforementioned sword.  
  
Reaching the building which housed the coffee shop, he knocked politely and waited for one of the Jacobsens to come and let him in. The thudding feet he heard approaching the door made him smile, with the enthusiasm and the speed, it must be Clara. Sure enough, the door flew open and he was greeted by Clara. "Afternoon, Karolek." She greeted, reasonably cheerfully.  
  
"Afternoon, Clara." Karolek said, bowing slightly. "May I come in."  
  
"Sure." Clara giggled, stepping aside to allow him access. "You live here too now." She motioned to a door in the corner which led to the stairs and the rooms above the shop. "Come on, it's this way."  
  
Karolek dutifully followed Clara up the stairs, which led to a small, sparsely furnished but comfortable living room. Next to it was a petite kitchen for personal use, much smaller than the one downstairs but equally well cared for. Nellie Jacobsen was there, stirring a pot of mashed potatoes. She turned to see the duo come up into the apartment, wiping her hands on her apron. "Afternoon, Karolek."  
  
"Afternoon, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek replied politely. "How are you feeling today?"  
  
"Fair." Nellie admitted. "Did you get everything over from your hotel all right?"  
  
Karolek smiled easily. "Yes, ma'am." He gestured to his few belongings. "Not much to bring along, really."  
  
She motioned to a hallway which led to rooms in the back of the flat. "Clara can show you where you'll be staying while you're here. Dinner will be in about half an hour, all right?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek said with a broad smile. "Thanks very much for you kindness. I do appreciate your going to the trouble of putting me up."  
  
Nellie smiled slightly in spite of herself. Maybe this young man wouldn't be so bad as she was initially thinking. By all accounts he seemed thoroughly charming, but at the same time he was very centered and.well.un male-like. "Clara, take him back to his room and help him get settled."  
  
"Yes Mama." Clara said, motioning to Karolek. "Come on, your room is at the top of the hall." She started, well, more appropriately bounded, the few steps out of the kitchen to the first room on the hallway. "Here y'are." She opened the door, revealing a room much like the rest of the apartment, small but neat. A bed stood in the corner opposite the door, next to a small nightstand. A dresser was underneath the window, and a few shelves were next to the door for odds and ends. "This used to be Edna's room. It's not much, but it will do."  
  
"It's a swell room." He assured Clara. "I don't mind it at all."  
  
"Great." Clara cheered, sitting down on Karolek's bed. "What's in the long paper package?"  
  
Karolek grinned, propping the door open to avoid any thoughts of impropriety on Nellie's part. He didn't want to alienate his boss before he ever started working. "Remember my telling you about having a sword, the other day?" Clara nodded. Karolek set the package down next to her on the bed and undid the string. He unfolded the paper to reveal a long silver handled bastard broadsword. The sword was about 40 inches long from the end of the handle to the tip. The handle was textured in the feathers of the double phoenix which began just below the hilt guard and wrapped around the bottom, where a deep red gem was set into the bottom. On the blade itself, just above the hilt, was a small line of Cyrillic printing which read out the family name Romanov.  
  
"It's beautiful, Karolek." Clara said softly. "Where did you get it? It must be worth a fortune." She reached out to touch it, but was halted by Karolek's hand on hers.  
  
"Careful." He admonished, a little sharply. "It's sharp and could hurt you."  
  
"You told Mama it wasn't sharpened." She whispered.  
  
Karolek nodded. "I know I did. I don't think she'd appreciate knowing that truth. Help me keep the secret?"  
  
"Of course." She said, beaming that Karolek trusted her with one of his secrets.  
  
"The sword has been in my family for generations. Made for my ancestor by a master sword smith. It's been passed down from father to son since the end of the 1400's. It's probably worth a fortune to a collector, more to a museum, so it's been closely guarded." Karolek explained, to a degree, the origins of the piece sitting between them.  
  
"What's this, on the top part?" Clara pointed delicately to the Cyrillic printing.  
  
"Here, on the hilt?" Karolek corrected. "It's my family name. Romanov, in Russian."  
  
Clara nodded solemnly. "Like Tsar Nicholas?"  
  
"Just like Tsar Nikolai." Karolek admitted. "Though separated from the imperial line many generations back." "Wow." Clara breathed. "That's still really swell. Why did you get rid of your name?"  
  
"For a change, I guess." Karolek lied, trying to stall and come up with a reason other than the reason he really didn't use his birth name. "I mean, I was named after my father, and Karolek isn't all that common a name even in Russian communities." He hoped, anyway. "I wanted to be different than he was, and the easiest way to do that seemed to be to get rid of my last name."  
  
"I see, I think." Clara said slowly. In truth, she didn't really understand, but she wasn't going to admit that to Karolek.  
  
Karolek wrapped up his sword in the paper again and slid it underneath his mattress. It would do as a hiding place for now, eventually it would make its way back into his coat. "Come on Clara, we'd best go see if your mother needs any help."  
  
  
  
Five months later, Hal Jacobsen breathed his last tortured breath. Though he'd clung rather stubbornly to his life until the end, ultimately there was no beating the carcinoma which killed him. For Hal, it was surely a relief not to have to struggle for one more life sustaining breath. For Nellie and Clara, it was alternately a blessing and a devastation. A blessing, in that they no longer had to watch his suffering. A devastation, in that Nellie was widowed once again, and at almost 15, Clara was without a father. It had been a long year for all of them, in that respect.  
  
The funeral was small. Nellie, Clara, Edna, her husband Merle, and their two children Armstrong and Lorraine, a few of Hal's friends and some of the members of the spy ring he'd led during the Great War, no more than 20 people in all.  
  
Karolek attended the funeral only because Nellie and Clara had asked him to. As Karolek Romanov, he'd liked the European born cobbler immensely, and was sad to see such a kind, devoted man pass on. As Karolek Nikailov, he had no connection to the man except through the two Jacobsen women, and so he came as requested.  
  
'What good is it to live forever, when men such as he, more worthy of my gift than I, are made to suffer in the way that he did.' Karolek wondered to himself, standing in the gentle rain behind the family. This was not the first time Karolek had posed this particular question to himself in 400 years, nor was it likely to be the last time he did. 'We all think we want eternity, until it is handed to us.' He laughed bitterly to himself. 'Mackenzie knew whereof she spoke. Odd that I should be taking life lessons from someone half my age.'  
  
As the priest continued the service, a persistent and all too familiar feeling began to tug at the back of Karolek's brain. 'Chert.' He swore to himself, recognizing the sensation as the Buzz which marked the approach of another Immortal. Lacking Mackenzie's ability to detect identity and strength based on the sensation, he was forced to start looking about the cemetery for whoever it was that was looking for him.  
  
He finally spotted the source of the Buzz in the next plot over. A tall, distinguished looking man in a long black coat, wearing a homburg and carrying an umbrella. Karolek slipped away from his spot at the end of the back row and slipped silently through the gravestones to the mysterious Immortal.  
  
Coming up to the cover of the tree, Karolek removed his newsboy's hat and shook some of the water off it, checking his coat to ensure that his sword remained tucked within. He had little to no interest in fighting this Immortal, whoever he might be, but wanted to know that he was armed should it come to that. He hadn't fought a Challenge in almost a year, and he knew his skills were rusty. He'd been sneaking away at nights and sometimes early in the mornings to practice away from Nellie's watchful eye. The few times he'd been caught, he'd spun an excuse about being out walking.  
  
The truth was, 400 years into his existence, Karolek had no real desire to be an active part in the Game. His sword skills, when practiced, were among the best out there, he knew without overstating his abilities. He'd had a period of time, after the death of his first wife Irina, where if he hadn't been a headhunter he'd been damned close. It was a part of his past he wasn't proud of, but had moved beyond in his own mind. Almost a century of that sort of living had made him more than few enemies, and Karolek feared that this might be one of them.  
  
"Lovely weather, isn't it?" The mystery Immortal commented, watching Karolek shake the rain out of his had. "Murder on a sword, though."  
  
"So it is." Karolek agreed, knowing he'd have to wipe his sword down later to prevent rusting. "Prince Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov."  
  
"Erich von Ridesel." The mystery Immortal introduced himself. "You know we are on holy ground." He stated, unnecessarily.  
  
"I've no quarrel with you." Karolek admitted. "I prefer to live life outside of the Game, rather than in it."  
  
Erich laughed quietly. "No man can keep himself outside the Game forever. Sooner or later, it consumes us all."  
  
Karolek nodded, leaning against the tree so that he could see Hal's funeral but keep Erich in his sights. "I suppose it does." He admitted, after a long silence. "But I'm not quite ready to let it consume me, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Lord do I." Erich laughed. "I'm certainly willing to avoid the fight if you are."  
  
"Man can never have too many friends, especially the kind that live forever." Karolek said, thinking not only of Hal, but of all the friends he'd made and lost during the Great War and times before.  
  
"Was he a good friend, this fellow who's funeral you're here for?" Erich asked, taking in Karolek's dark coat and pants.  
  
"Not really." Karolek said, still watching. "I met him after the war, on my way to meet a friend. He's more a friend of friends, I suppose." He looked over at Erich. "You serve?"  
  
"German Imperial Army. Second army, first infantry division. Company commander. You?"  
  
"Started out in the Rockies. Ended as a sniper, barrels in the first army under Colonel Morrell." Karolek commented softly. "Wasn't like war when I learned it. But that's beside the point." The Russian prince sighed softly. "So no, he wasn't a good friend. But it burns all the same. Jacobsen was a good man, probably a better man than I. Came over, made a living for himself, married a nice woman and raised a good girl. Did his bit during the war and was just as much a hero as any man in uniform. I stay forever 21, he spends seven months dying in a hospital." He sighed again. He sounded as brooding and depressed as he ever had, even after his first wife had died. He needed to get away from this line of thinking, stop brooding and sounding so much like the MacLeods.  
  
"It does hurt that's true." Erich admitted. "Sounds as though you could use a drinking buddy."  
  
"And how." Karolek admitted. "Tomorrow's my day off. I'll be drinking at the tavern on 2nd street at 4 if you care to join me."  
  
"All right." Erich agreed. "You'll need someone to watch your back if you're planning on getting plastered the way you sound like. Have you even got enough money to get yourself truly drunk?" He straightened as if to walk away. "For the record, I'm willing to put up my sword till the Gathering if you are."  
  
"Sounds good to me." Karolek said, shaking Erich's hand. "I'd best get back before I'm really missed."  
  
"Till tomorrow." Erich bade the other Immortal goodbye. As Karolek turned to walk away, he called out again, "Romanov?"  
  
Karolek turned to face von Ridesel again. "Nikailov, if you would."  
  
"Hauptmann." Erich offered his own assumed last name. "Life goes on without us. Don't beat yourself up for things you can't control."  
  
Karolek nodded slowly, considering the German's words. "Till tomorrow, Erich." And with that, Karolek walked back to the funeral, and Hauptmann remained at the graves of his wife and young son, buried almost twenty years before in the last year of the Great War.  
  
  
  
It took Erich von Ridesel two passes around the block before he found the tavern that Karolek had planned to be at, and even then it was only because he felt the pull of the other man's buzz on the second time around. He pushed open the door and stepped into the dimly lit tavern.  
  
The place was only half full, odd even for a Saturday. Granted, the Depression which had hit hard five years ago was still more or less a factor, but factories were starting to come around again and people were beginning to find work again. That aside, people were probably saving for a rainy day rather than drinking, though any hard times could be counted on to fill bars.  
  
He spotted the youthful, blond Immortal at a corner table, his back to the wall. A second seat next to him was empty, also facing the wall. A perfect table to keep watch on the room and your seatmate, as well. So Romanov was smart or sensible, depending on how you saw it, and well trained at the very least. Erich admitted to himself that he had no idea what he was doing in that tavern, drinking with a relative stranger that he knew next to nothing about. He knew only the man's real name, and what he'd done during the last war. He didn't know how old the man was, who he'd trained with, what sort of person he was.anything really. So what was he doing here?  
  
He slipped across the bar and into the seat next to Romanov. The bartender promptly delivered another round of beers to the table where the two Immortals sat, taking two dollars from Romanov and disappearing. "First round is on me."  
  
"Thank you." Erich said with a smile, undoing his coat and hanging it from a hook in the wall. "I guess you really do have the money to drink with."  
  
Karolek chuckled. "Once upon a time, the Romanovs had more money than they knew what to do with."  
  
"And now the whole country is in trouble." Erich sympathized.  
  
"True." Karolek agreed. "Nikolai has more troubles than he can handle some days, I fear. All the more compounded by the continued illness of the tsarevich."  
  
"How long has it been? Since you left home?" Erich asked softly.  
  
Karolek grinned. "The first time or the last time?" Erich blushed slightly. The Russian had caught him fishing."You're a little transparent, you know."  
  
"Wouldn't be the first time I was accused of that." The German admitted. "My teacher always did say that I was a little too open to survive long as one of us. I like to think I've proved him wrong."  
  
"Who him, if you don't mind my asking?"  
  
"Now who's being transparent?" Erich laughed. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."  
  
"Fair enough." Karolek agreed.  
  
"Schuyler. William Schuyler."  
  
"Khan Seh." Karolek said, sipping at his beer. "Met Schuyler, once. He's a good man."  
  
"Was."  
  
"Sorry. How?"  
  
Erich shrugged. "I'm not sure, exactly. I know the fellow's name was Book. Jacob Book."  
  
"Oh, he's pleasant." Karolek said darkly.  
  
"You know him then?"  
  
"We've met."  
  
Astounded, Erich had no real idea of what to say. "When? How?" A dark look crossed his face. "And how do I kill him?"  
  
Karolek finished his drink and motioned for another. He gave the man a twenty and told him to keep the refills coming and asked him to keep himself scarce. The bartender nodded cheerfully and moved back to his bar, grateful for such a paying customer. Men of his type were too thin on the ground in working class pubs these days, and he was more than willing to leave the two intense looking men to their conversation.  
  
As he retreated to his bar, the man took the opportunity to study his two patrons. The man who seemed to be doing the paying was young, probably no older than his mid twenties. His pale blond hair was long, pulled back from a handsome face with European features, maybe Eastern Europe but not a Slav. He was dressed in black slacks and a blue vest over a white shirt. A newsboy hat hung with his shin length trench coat from one of the wall nails. His eyes, though, were enough to stop a potential enemy dead in their tracks. They were gray, of the same color as gunmetal, and spoke of a life with trials that stretched way beyond his physical years.  
  
The other man was a study in contrasts to the first. Though not paying, he certainly looked as though he could afford his own drinks. He was somewhat elegantly dressed, in a neat charcoal suit with a gray overcoat and homburg. The man could have been a government worker or a diplomat. He was square jawed, with brown hair and light brown eyes. He had an air of refinement about him, but at the same time he didn't seem out of place in a tavern that was mostly working class. A flexible sort, who could be at home in high society or a factory floor.  
  
Karolek took a long pull on his new beer to avoid answering the question right away. He did not have fond memories of Book, who was largely a mistake compounded by time that he sometimes wished he could get away from. "I met him about 250 years ago." Karolek began quietly, leaning in so that their conversation wouldn't carry. "He was new, then, or relatively, at least. Maybe 10 years in, no more. He was with his teacher, a Swede named Carlsson." He snorted quietly. "I had something of a reputation at the time that I was trying to get away from, so maybe Carlsson was trying to make a name for himself. I don't know."  
  
"A reputation?" Erich interrupted. "As what?"  
  
Karolek sighed. "I wasn't a headhunter, but I was damned close. Almost a century I went looking for Challenges, and found them fairly often. "  
  
"That's how it was with Carlsson?"  
  
"Da. Carlsson issued a challenge, and we fought. At the time I was trying to leave that part of me behind, but the man wouldn't be swayed. 'There Can Be Only One,' or so he kept reminding me. He was a good fighter, damned good, but then so am I." He swallowed some more beer. "Book took offense at my beating Carlsson, and he Challenged me in honor of his teacher's memory. Took me about thirty seconds to knock the sword out of his hands."  
  
Erich nodded thoughtfully. "But you didn't kill him." It was a statement, not a question, for both men knew the answer. "Why?"  
  
"Because he was so young. Too new. He was doing what he thought was the honorable thing, avenging his teacher, and I thought maybe he was best left alone. I told him to study up and not fight out of his weight, because the next person wouldn't be quite so kind as I had been. I left him his head and his sword and left town." He ran a hand through the shorter pieces at the front of his ponytail. "Book found a new teacher. Grayson. You want to talk about dangerous. Grayson fought with Darius before Darius took the holy man's Quickening and spared Paris. Grayson never forgave him the slight of disbanding his army when he could have ruled Europe for a thousand years. He's hell with a blade, and was probably the worst person that Book could have found at the time he did. Ate it all up, became a strong fighter and a vengeful man. We met in a monastery in India about 75 years ago, and Book swore if he ever found me off of Holy Ground, we would pick up our fight where we left off."  
  
"So Book picked up Grayson's habits. Still doesn't explain why he killed Schuyler." Erich mused.  
  
"It may just have been the fact that your man was in the way of something Book or Grayson wanted. He's certainly learned how to be ruthless enough in getting what he wants." Karolek offered. "I made quite a mistake there, but I don't see how I can do much about it. I'm not the man I was 250 years back. Darius I'm not, but I don't go looking for fights."  
  
"Can you still fight?" Erich asked of the older Immortal, concerned. "When was your last Challenge?"  
  
"Almost a year." Karolek admitted. "And yes, I can still fight, though I might be a little rusty. My current employment doesn't really allow for a great deal of sword training."  
  
"Maybe you need to get some sparring in." Erich offered. "I'm not very old, but I'm decent with a blade, and any practice is better than none."  
  
Karolek nodded. "Just how old are you, anyway? I gave you enough to at least rough age me, yet I don't know you."  
  
"Two hundred and eleven." Erich admitted.  
  
"'S not so shabby." Karolek told his friend, who to any other man would appear to be older and more prosperous. In reality, however, Karolek was worth a king's ransom, and had two hundred years on the man. "Not quite as long as 416, but not bad."  
  
"Gee, thanks." Erich groused.  
  
"Oh, take it easy kid." Karolek teased with a touch of irony, as to anyone else's eye, the German should have been calling him kid. "I have half days on Saturdays. Do you have somewhere we can meet to practice?"  
  
"I do." Erich admitted. "I own a shipping company. My warehouse holds dry goods. All the workers leave on Saturday at half day. You could come there, no one would disturb us."  
  
"Sounds good." Karolek said, taking a scrap of paper on which Erich wrote his address. "You seem like a good man, Erich. I think that with time I could trust you. But I want to make one thing clear to you. If you try and play me the wrong way or do something treacherous, I have several friends who are deeply into vengeance."  
  
"Fair enough." Erich said. "I told you. I'll put up my sword until the Gathering if you will."  
  
Downing his last beer, Karolek pulled on his coat and hat. "I'll see you Saturday afternoon, then." 


	2. Hidden Dimensions

Ch 2  
  
The next day, Sunday, again found Karolek in the small Orthodox church about six blocks from the coffee shop. He wasn't sure exactly why he still went. The preaching was, as it had been last week, uninspired and sleep inducing. Maybe if the priest didn't have that lisp.at least being in church for an hour or so gave him time to think on other things without worrying about his personal safety. If it wasn't for the fact that Nellie believed him to be a church-going man, he'd probably give it up. He sensed that he and the Almighty were about to reach a parting of the ways again.and some of that was probably due to Jacob Book.  
  
The conversation with Erich in the bar yesterday had been extremely unsettling, to say the least. He'd hoped that in 75 years Book might have met a sticky end on the wrong end of a sword, but apparently that had been an idle hope. If only the man hadn't met up with Grayson, things might have worked out rather differently. Then again, if he'd finished off Book the way their kind were supposedly supposed to.Karolek sighed audibly, earning a reproachful look from an elderly lady with a kerchief on her head one seat over. He was starting to sound entirely too much like one of the MacLeods. He'd never really subscribed to that sort of brooding, at least not since his "headhunting" days a quarter millennia ago.  
  
Thankfully, the priest wrapped up his sermon and began to serve communion. Karolek took his turn with the rest of the congregation, slipping out afterwards rather than waiting for a chance in the line for Confession. The priests in Washington weren't going to have the answers he needed.  
  
The Russian Prince stepped out into the weak sunshine of late fall, drawing a deep breath. The air was crisp and clean. It reminded him a bit of days he'd enjoyed before his death in Russia. Newsboys were on the corners, shouting about a sticky confrontation between US Navy sailors trying to inspect Charleston harbor and a group of Confederates on the docks.  
  
Karolek tossed the boy a dime and took one of the papers. He snapped it open and began to read. The sailors had been forced to train their big guns on the men to make the crowd break up. He sighed. A year ago, the Rebs wouldn't even have thought of trying such a stunt. This new President of theirs, Jake Featherston, was all for stirring up as much trouble with the US as he possibly could. "What a waste of a peace." Karolek muttered to himself, walking back towards the shop. "Idiot won't be happy till he gets another go-round at the US. You'd think anyone with half a brain would want to stay away from war as long as he could. Especially a moron on the Roanoke front."  
  
His mind grateful for the change in thought topic, Karolek continued to dwell on Jake Featherston and his Freedom thugs down in the CSA. Normally, national politics wasn't something he found himself caring about. He kept a half-eye to the court intrigue of the Romanovs, curious to see the goings on of his family line, but paid little attention to anything else. Sure, he'd thrown in his lot with the US during the Great War, but that had less to do with personal politics and more to do with his location when war broke out.  
  
This though.this was something different. He'd picked up bits and pieces of Featherston's politics from both Americans and Confederates at the coffee house, and knew them to be both repulsive and enticing. Repulsive, in that he intended to set himself square with everyone who had ever wronged him, be it real or imagined. The generals, who he believed had botched the war; the blacks, who had risen up during the war and helped the US forces to gain a foothold in the trenches; the United States itself, for having the gall to defeat the Confederacy for the first time in two wars; the politicians and class system inherent in Southern politics. Karolek shook his head. A man fueled by the sort of wounded pride common among schoolboys.the sort of pride he'd often been victim to as a boy.was going to drag the whole world back into the fires of war, and all to settle a grudge.  
  
He turned the last corner onto the street of the coffee house, and saw Clara sweeping the sidewalk while her mother wiped at the already clean glass. He looked around quickly to see if any policemen were about, and was satisfied that there were none. Washington's blue laws prevented anyone from working on the Sabbath, and he didn't want to see his friends suffer any more than they already were.  
  
Clara spotted the young Immortal first, and stopped her sweeping to wave excitedly at the man. "Karo!" She called out, wanting to be sure she had his attention.  
  
"Hush, Clara." Nellie sniped, swiping at her daughter. "It doesn't do to call so much attention to yourself."  
  
"Yes, Mama." Clara growled, embarrassed at the slight in front of Karolek. "I just wanted to be sure he saw us."  
  
Nellie shook her head. Youthful imprudence had gotten her into her fair share of troubles. Why was it that Clara insisted on ignoring sound advice? "Where else would he be going, Clara? He lives upstairs, and there is nowhere else to go of a Sunday, except a bar."  
  
Clara chose to ignore her mother's muttered darkness in favor of greeting the teenaged waiter. "Good afternoon, Karo."  
  
"Afternoon Clara, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek said, tipping his newsboy cap to the two ladies.  
  
"Good afternoon Karolek." Nellie politely greeted the young man. "How was mass?"  
  
Karolek offered a dry smile. "Woefully dull, I'm afraid. This parish drew the short straw when it came to priestly assignments. It's quite difficult to be inspired when one is having a hard time staying awake." Clara giggled behind her hand, earning another reproachful glare from her mother. Karolek grinned and offered the young girl a wink, before explaining the particular shortcomings of Father Yegor to Nellie. "Newsboys say the Navy boys got into quite a mess down in Charleston harbor." He said, displaying the newspaper in an attempt to change his employer's attention.  
  
"Well, yes." Nellie agreed, turning back from the paper and swiping at a sticky spot on the window. She looked over at Karolek. "Doesn't sound like good news, does it?"  
  
"No, ma'am." Karolek agreed, picking up a rag to work on the other window. "I think Featherston won't be happy until he gets another fight." He sighed. "And I think it'll come sooner rather than later, if he has his way."  
  
Clara stopped her sweeping, looking at the Immortal with wide, fearful eyes. "You think we're in danger?" Her lower lip quavered, and she looked on the verge of breaking out into tears.  
  
"Of course not Clara." Nellie said sharply. "Don't be ridiculous. Washington hasn't been in any danger since before you were born.  
  
Karolek gently squeezed her arm. "No, Clara. I don't think we're in any danger yet." He offered the girl a smile not unlike the ones he used to defuse Nellie from time to time. "Teddy Roosevelt made sure to get a big buffer zone for Washington in the last war. All that land that used to be Virginia will slow down the Confederates for a good while. And Featherston can't fight a war without weapons, and right now he doesn't have any."  
  
"You're sure then?" Clara pressed, grateful for the comforting words and a little thrilled at the ease of Karolek's comforting gestures. Even at 19, Karolek seemed to know so much MORE than her mother. Nellie was all practicality and stifling energy. She'd never been more than ten miles away from Washington DC, she NEVER paid attention to anything going on in the world outside of the city, and she was always checking up on Clara to make sure she wasn't doing anything improper. Karolek was so much more exciting. He was from Washington State, he'd served in the army, he even spoke another language and was related to royalty. 'Mama can say all she wants about danger, but what does she know?'  
  
Another grin. "I'm sure Clara. Don't worry about it."  
  
"Swell." Clara grinned back, returning to her sweeping.  
  
Nellie watched her daughter out of the corner of her eye, discouraged by the growing signs of a crush that she saw her daughter developing on her shop assistant. Crushes led to desire, desire led to acting on it.and acting on it could lead to more trouble than Clara would think existed in the world. She'd had the same problem with Clara's sister Edna. Edna had wanted romance, and had steadily pursued the physical side of that romance despite all of her best efforts. She resolved to speak to Karolek if this crush didn't peter itself out. He was a man, after all, while Clara was still a girl, even if there were only 14 years between them. "Karolek, there's a new block of ice in the icebox that needs chipping up. Go and take care of that, will you."  
  
Karolek chuckled to himself at the dark look on Nellie's face. He'd spent enough time in the company of women over the years to be able to read facial expressions, and Nellie was obviously displeased. 'More so than usual, too. Either she doesn't like the idea of Clara having a crush, or she thinks I'm too old for her daughter anyway.' Amused and slightly cheered at the thought, he "yes, ma'am"-ed Nellie and set off to the ice box.  
  
  
  
Sunday past, the week flew by for all of the coffee shop inhabitants. Clara returned to school, Nellie and Karolek worked up a storm. Before he knew it, his half-day Saturday was over and he was headed towards the river and Erich's shipping warehouse.  
  
As sure as he was that Erich wasn't planning any sort of ambush, the survivor's part of Karolek's brain still insisted that he be wary. A day's drinking in his company had given him a certain measure of insight into the man, but he readily admitted he knew very little about the German's character. Even the most decent in appearance could be a potential foe if one wasn't on guard. For the time being, he was banking on his threat of vengeance from friends and his superior age and past reputation to keep himself out of trouble. It was one of the only benefits he felt he'd taken from that period, aside from his second wife. If people thought you were dangerous, they tended to stay away from you, unless of course they were looking to make a reputation for themselves.like Carlsson. 'Damn. Is there nothing that I can think of these days that doesn't bring me back to Book?"  
  
He smiled in appreciation as he approached Erich's warehouse. It was a large building, set well back from the main road and the truck turnaround. Few windows, only one obvious door to the street and probably a cargo loading bay on the other side to bring in goods from ships. It would make for a good place to practice without being observed, and it would be difficult to sneak up on. He pulled his coat around himself a little tighter and watched the few workers file out of the building.  
  
"Mr. Hauptmann isn't hiring, buddy." One of the workers, a tall, stocky man with a long scar down the left side of his face called out.  
  
"Come again?" Karolek asked, unsure of how else to respond to the seemingly random comment.  
  
"The boss isn't hiring." Another man, with unruly tufts of red hair poking out of a fisherman's cap, repeated patiently. "He had to let Will Evans go last week, and seemed right sad to do it. I don't think he'll take on anyone new."  
  
"Can't hurt to try, can it?" Karolek said, playing along with the conversation. Dressed as he was, he looked like a worker, where Erich was clearly an established businessman. He didn't think he looked as though he was seeking work, but then the newly unemployed tended to look a little less downtrodden than those that had been pounding the pavement for longer. "I'm young, I might work for less and longer than Evans did. Can you tell me where to find Mr. Hauptmann?"  
  
"He's in his office, going over the books." The man with the scar said patiently. "But you're wasting your time." Stopping his intended lecture, he sized up the younger looking man. "You look awfully familiar, kid. Have we met somewhere before?"  
  
Karolek's gunmetal eyes darkened slightly, and his eyes widened a fraction. Someone who didn't know him well would have been hard pressed to see the difference in his earlier countenance, and maybe 15 or 20 people in the world could read him that well. He recognized the scar, and now his mind put a name to the face. Finn Sullivan.from the barrel brigade in Tennessee. The man had gotten that scar from an artillery shell when it exploded right next to his machine.and now he recognized him. "I don't think so, sir." Karolek replied evenly, masking his inner thoughts and playing on his eternally young looks.  
  
"Naw, I'm sure of it." Finn brushed off Karolek's answer, studying the face before him as if looking for the clue. 'Those eyes.' Finn mused. 'I've seen eyes like that before.on that boy sniper from the Rockies that Morrell was so fond of.' "I've got it." Finn declared. "You look just like Captain Romanov. I served with him in the war." Finn stared at Karolek's eyes, taking in the blond hair and face as his memories returned to him. "Bloody hell, you could BE Karolek Romanov, and you haven't aged a damned day.you're not, are you?"  
  
'Of course I am. How nice to see you again, Finn. I'm glad to see that your face healed rather nicely. How are you doing? Married? Any children? No, none for me. Yes, it is amazing that I haven't aged at all in 18 years.' Karolek bit back the sigh that fought to escape his lips. "No, I'm not Karolek Romanov." He paused a moment. "He was my father."  
  
"Your father?" Finn chuckled. "Of course. God, kid, you look exactly like him. How is your old man?"  
  
"Died, three years ago." Karolek said softly, playing the role to the hilt. He was grateful that Finn took the explanation so easily that he was his own son. He'd met more than a few mortals over the years who continued to insist that he was his old self rather than his own son. Those who stubbornly believed the illogical truth rather than the easier explanation were never much fun to deal with.  
  
Finn looked slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, kid. He was a good man, one of the best shots with a rifle I've ever seen." He patted Karolek on the shoulder. "Go on in and talk to Hauptmann. Tell him I sent you in. I don't know that it'll do you any good, but give it a try anyway."  
  
"Thanks all the same, sir." Karolek offered the man his hand.  
  
"Sure thing, kid. And the name is Finn. Sergeant Finn Sullivan." The burly worker picked up his lunchbox and motioned to the road. "I better catch the trolley home before my wife starts thinking I'm having an affair. Good luck, kid." Sullivan walked away after the rest of his co-workers, leaving Karolek standing at the entrance to the warehouse.  
  
He turned to watch his old comrade-in-arms walk away. It would have been nice to talk to Finn again as an equal, as the Karolek he'd been rather than the one he was pretending to be now. Khan Seh had explained to him the dangers of mortal society finding out about their kind; dangers which had only multiplied in this highly militant society that had developed in the aftermath of the American Civil War. Logically, he understood all the problems inherent in Immortality becoming public knowledge. Emotionally, however, he wanted more than a few close friends that he could trust with his real age and his real past.  
  
His musings were interrupted by the intrusion of an Immortal buzz onto his consciousness. Erich was waiting, he remembered, and from the movement in and out of his range, had probably resorted to pacing the length of the warehouse while he waited.  
  
Chuckling at the younger man's impatience, he pushed open the door and called out, "Hello, Erich?" His Russian-tinged voice echoed through the half-full warehouse.  
  
"Karolek!" The German accented voice of his new acquaintance called back. "I was beginning to be concerned that you had gotten lost until I realized you were outside. What happened?"  
  
"I ran into some of your workers outside." The prince explained, taking off his cap and hanging up his coat in the office. He drew his sword and continued to explain, "One of your employees is a man I served in the war with. He thought he recognized me."  
  
"Did he?" Erich asked, shouldering his Crusader's sword and sounding concerned.  
  
"Of course he did." Karolek replied, bringing his blade up to eye level so he could examine it.  
  
Erich took the extended silence for a full answer and stammered out, "And you told him what you are," with a note of incredulity in his voice. For a man almost twice his age, he seemed decidedly unconcerned about revealing his secret. His voice took on an edge it had missed before. "I suppose you told your employer and her daughter too. Or maybe her husband, before he died? Do you pass it out with the checks in that little café?" To von Ridesel, who so jealously guarded his own secret, this was the most dangerous of sins.  
  
Karolek raised his eyebrows, surprised at the suddenness and vehemence of the tirade. A closer friend, such as Connor or Darius, would have seen the danger lurking in his gray eyes. Erich quite simply hadn't noticed what he had done. "I said nothing of the sort. I convinced Sullivan that I am my own son. He even told me what a good man and good shot my father was."  
  
Erich had the good sense to look abashed. His abashed look, however, gave way to fear when he suddenly found his own sword on the ground and the Russian prince's sword at his neck. Eyes wide, he met the ice-cold gaze of the older immortal and realized the mistake he'd made. Buried within the seemingly innocent and unassuming exterior lurked a man he could EASILY see having been a headhunter.and a damned good one, at that. He swallowed as hard as he dared, realizing that his own death was not entirely out of the question at this moment.  
  
Slowly, Karolek turned his wrist so that the sharp edge of the blade was set right next to the German's trembling neck. The way the two men stood right now, all Karolek would have had to do was swing his arm and that would be the end. His normally cheerful face was uncompromising and hard, his eyes flashing darkened gray, the same color of the gleaming steel blade currently making the other Immortal very, very nervous. When he spoke, it was in a low, almost guttural growl that reminded von Ridesel of the German spoken by the peasants near his boyhood home. "I am not an idiot or a child, nor do I appreciate being treated like one."  
  
"I understand. I do. I'm sorry." The impassive mask did not break. "Good god, man, it was a mistake."  
  
Karolek nodded once, lowering the blade from the German's neck. "See to it that you do not make the same mistake again."  
  
Erich raised a trembling hand to his neck, as if to feel that it was still attached. "No goddamned kidding I won't make that mistake again." Keeping his eyes trained on Karolek at all times, he knelt to the ground and picked up his sword. "I am sorry." He said contritely. "It's just that Will was so intent about training me to keep Immortality a secret. I didn't even tell my first wife what I was. It's hard to imagine being open with my secret.it feels like a betrayal to him."  
  
"I suppose I can understand that." He motioned to the sword with his free hand. "That's why you carry Schuyler's sword, da?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Karolek swung his sword to rest the flat of the blade against his shoulder. "Understand something, Erich. It's not that I'm free with my secret. It's not a secret we SHOULD be free with. I've not told many mortals what I am. Aside from the descendents of my brother's family line, there is no one outside of the Game who does know." He sighed heavily. "I just wish that there was someone I could tell the whole truth to. To stop hiding, and be my self. Not whatever creation of paper that I am that year."  
  
"Ours is a lonely and transitory existence." Erich admitted. "Mortals do not easily understand what and who we are. It's one of the reasons I wish I could put up my sword. I'm not really a fighting man."  
  
"You could live on Holy Ground." Karolek pointed out unnecessarily.  
  
Erich nodded his agreement. "True, I could." He smiled. "But as much as I am not a fighting man, I am also a man who enjoys living life. And if the price for that is a sword in hand, than that is the price I must pay."  
  
"That's very philosophical of you."  
  
"So it is." He laughed. "You came to fight. What say we get to it?"  
  
"You're on." Karolek said with a chuckle. "En guard!"  
  
  
  
Several hours later, the two Immortals finally called it quits. Karolek admitted that he would be expected back at the coffee shop for supper, and Erich had dinner reservations with a fellow shipper at a club across town.  
  
"-Thanks.-" Karolek called into the office, where Erich was confirming his reservation.  
  
"-You're welcome.-" Erich answered, wiping at his face with a handkerchief. "But what the hell are you thanking me for?" He motioned to the several bloody slices decorating his once pristine white shirt. "If this was a real fight, you would have walloped me pretty soundly. Frankly, I'm glad you took up my offer of not fighting." He nodded respectfully to the prince. "You're damned talented with a sword."  
  
Karolek smirked at the vaguely irritated look on Erich's face. "Thank you." He pulled on the vest he'd discarded almost two hours ago and retied his ponytail. "No, my thanks is for the exercise. I haven't had a sparring partner in a long time."  
  
"You mean a punching bag."  
  
"Not at all." Karolek said kindly. "You're not a bad fighter at all. You were just born at a time when sword dueling was going out of style." He lifted one of the bloody tears in the fabric. "If you can, try stopping yourself from over committing on your backhand when there's no enemy's sword to stop you. It puts you off balance and leaves you vulnerable if your opponent has something he can swing in a hurry."  
  
"I'll remember that for next week." Erich promised with a smile, taking the advice in stride. "Come round again?  
  
Karolek pulled on his coat and returned the sword to it's place thoughtfully. "Sure. Probably about a half hour later, though. I don't want to take the chance of running into your dockboys again." He pulled on his cap and braced himself against the chill. "Till next week, Erich." He extended his hand to the German.  
  
"Till next week," Erich said agreeably, returning the Russian's shake. 


	3. Ships in the Night

Disclaimer: Recognizable characters from Highlander and the American Front/American Empire books still belong to their respective creators, who are not me. Connor's comment to Nellie about his accent is borrowed from Highlander 1. They're not making me any money, and I don't have any for anyone to take, either.  
  
"The Russian Prince" is written with no regard for the plot developments in American Empire: The Victorious Opposition, because I started the story before TVO came out.  
  
Sentences enclosed in - - are spoken in the native languages of whomever happens to be speaking at the time. Russian's not my thing, and my German is as good as the foreign language of almost anyone who studied in an American high school. (  
  
Chapter Three: Ships in the Night  
  
"Karolek?" A high pitched, hesitant voice accompanied the knocking on his door. "Are you awake?"  
  
The formerly sleeping Russian glanced up at his clock before groaning. It couldn't be time to get up already, could it? He rubbed sleepy eyes and looked again. 5:30. It really WAS time to get up. 'Swell.' He raised his muttering voice and called out to Clara, "I'm awake, Clara. Be out in five."  
  
"Good." Clara returned through the locked door. "I think Mama's in a bad mood today. She's already downstairs waiting for you." Clara smoothed out her dress and finished tying back her hair before walking down the short hallway to the kitchen.  
  
Karolek rose somewhat groggily from his bed and pulled his clean shirt from its peg in the wall. Immortal or no, he wasn't quite awake until he had his first cup of coffee in the mornings. A quick glance out the window showed the promise of a sunny, albeit cold, day. It would be a good day to escape after his shift was done downstairs and do a little training on his own. Working out with Erich was all well and good, but once a week wasn't enough to keep him in fighting shape. Their second sparring match, when Erich had come uncomfortably close to putting a dagger through his chest, had proven that lesson entirely too well. It had also done wonders to show Karolek that the younger German could still be a sneaky s.o.b. when he really needed to.  
  
Dressed in his customary black pants, white shirt, and gray vest, he reached for the small band of black leather that tied his hair back. Clara jokingly called the outfit his uniform, since he wore it or some variation on the placement of the colors almost every day. Karolek preferred it because blacks and grays blended into the background. The less you invited someone to look at you twice, the more likely it was you could just slip ghostlike, through the background. Who, after all, was likely to remember the kid waiting tables in a coffee shop, even if he did have long hair?  
  
Walking downstairs, Karolek braced himself for the likely unpleasant atmosphere in the shop, caused by Nellie's purportedly lousy mood. Just last week, at their usual Saturday afternoon session, Erich had asked Karolek why he was bothering to work in the shop when he was capable of doing so much more.  
  
"What are you still doing there?" Erich asked, going on the offensive.  
  
"Doing where?" Karolek returned, parrying the blow and moving to lock up Erich's sword.  
  
"At that coffee shop." Erich continued. "It can't be much fun as far as work goes. I've met the woman who owns the place, Widow Jacobsen, and she's not exactly what you'd call warm and fuzzy. You can't need the money, and you're more than capable of doing something better, I'm sure." He stopped, frowning in concentration as Karolek launched a rather aggressive attack. For his trouble, he wound up disarmed and on his knees, courtesy of a rather nasty left hand swipe. "Yield," the German sighed, seeing the point of Karolek's broadsword at his neck. "That's what, four for you?"  
  
"Da." Karolek said with a grin, allowing his friend to stand and collect his sword. "Break for ten?" At Erich's nod, the two men made their way over to the small icebox where Erich stored some water.  
  
"You never answered my question, you know." Erich pointed out as they sat on boxes drinking.  
  
Karolek frowned. "Sure I did. I agreed that was my fourth win."  
  
"Not about wins, Karo. About the coffee house. Why stay when I'm sure you're capable of doing more?"  
  
Karolek leaned back in thought, wondering how to answer. "Because.because it's -normal there.-"  
  
"And for those of us who don't speak Russian?"  
  
"Ah." Karolek translated his earlier statement for Erich. "I still have to pretend. Nellie and Clara both think I'm a nineteen year old kid, fresh out of the army and looking for a start. Granted it's a little frustrating when they TREAT me like I'm a nineteen year old kid, but those moments aren't as frequent as they might be."  
  
Erich sipped at his water, suddenly wishing it were beer or wine. "And that's normal?"  
  
Grinning wryly, Karolek pointed out that lying about their ages was in fact very normal for an Immortal, causing Erich to chuckle. "No, that's not the sort of normal I mean, Erich. The fate of the world doesn't hang on what goes on in this coffee shop. No one suspects I'm capable of anything out of the ordinary, except for maybe cooking a little to well for a man. Countries won't rise or fall based on how the coffee tastes. No one's life is in my hands if I don't get their eggs out on time." Leaning forward, he looked at Erich in earnest. "It's as normal a life as someone like me can hope to live, for now at least."  
  
"That's very profound." Erich raised his glass as if in a toast.  
  
"I've had a lot of years to think." Karolek sipped at his water thoughtfully. "I've done the big things, you know? I've commanded men in three American wars and at least as many European ones.captained ships.made and changed history.hell, I was the prince of a large Russian province for three years before I died." A long silence ensued, leaving Erich unsure as to whether or not he should comment. His past lesson in patience was rewarded. "Yes, I've done the big things. Now I want to spend some time doing normal things."  
  
Thoughtfully, Erich commented, "That's a noble ambition, Karolek, and good luck with it. Maybe it'll happen for you." As if to make a silent point, he raised his sword so that the light flashed off the blade. "But I don't think it will happen. It doesn't.not for men like us."  
  
Nodding sadly, Karolek finished the glass of water he was drinking and picked up his own sword. They moved out into the center of the open space and raised their swords, ready for another go round.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The day passed slowly in the coffee house. Clara spent most of the day at school, returning in mid-afternoon.  
  
As Clara was halfway to her apron, Nellie's sharp voice cut across the kitchen. "What do you think you're doing, young lady?"  
  
Clara looked up into an angry face and said, "Putting on my apron to help."  
  
"I should think not." Nellie retorted. "You have homework, don't you?"  
  
"Just some algebra and a composition for government." Clara shot a pleading look at Karolek, trying to will him to come into the budding argument on her side.  
  
Karolek said nothing, continuing to wash out the coffee pot, but the gesture was not lost on Nellie. "Get yourself upstairs then and get to work. I'll have no daughter of mine shirking her schoolwork because she'd rather be working here."  
  
"But Mama." Clara began to whine.  
  
"Upstairs." The finality was evident in the older woman's tone. Clara gave Karolek a last, mournful glance before turning and slamming her way through the door which led to the upstairs apartment. Both adults were glad that no one else was in the shop to witness the display.  
  
Clara gone, Nellie turned her temper on Karolek. "I don't appreciate your encouraging her."  
  
"What, ma'am?" Karolek asked, deciding to play dumb for the moment.  
  
"Always backing her up against me. Playing into this crush she seems to have developed on you. Those four years are an important four years, you know."  
  
"I know, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek held up his hands in a placating gesture. 'Oh, how I know. I also know that 401 years is a much more important gap.' "I promise you, ma'am, I haven't knowingly done ANYTHING to lead her on into believing I have an interest in her."  
  
"You haven't?" Nellie repeated, disappointed.  
  
Karolek vigorously shook his head, causing a few longer strands of hair to escape his ponytail. "No, ma'am. Clara's a nice girl, but she's still a girl. I'm not stupid, ma'am."  
  
Nellie studied Karolek intently. His gray eyes, which even now she still found slightly disturbing for the age they seemed to convey, were open and earnest. She had to smile at the picture he made, soapy hands held open, though she kept her smile to herself. If Clara were older, she might not care so much. Like her son-in-law Merle, Karolek seemed to be a good man. He was always neatly dressed, a hard worker who seemed to be possessed of common sense, and was always polite and courteous. A girl like Clara could do worse.  
  
But not now. Not today. Nellie had never gotten much of an education, which meant she'd done some very unfortunate things in order to get by.things she'd been trying to live down or get past for too many years. She didn't want that for Clara. "See to it that you stay that way, Karolek." She finished sharply, attention diverted to an entering customer. "Go and see what our customer wants."  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek said, wiping his hands on the towel he still wore as an apron and moving out towards the front of the shop. Internally, he congratulated himself for not pulling his switchblade from his pocket and giving her the sort of scare he'd given Erich six weeks ago. It had been very, very tempting.  
  
The second he stepped out of the kitchen, he received a double shock. The first came in the form of an all too familiar ringing Buzz in his head. The second came in the form of the new customer, a young looking man who was eyeing the shop every bit as intently as he was. "-I'll be damned.-" Karolek muttered softly, sizing up the familiar brown hair and vaguely bored look of Connor MacLeod. "Connor, what are you doing here?"  
  
To say that Connor was surprised to see Karolek with a makeshift apron tucked in his waistband would be quite true. The two Highlanders had met the Russian Prince shortly after the end of his headhunting days, while traveling in Ireland. Karolek had recently married his second wife, Brighid (Bridget), and was living in Killorglin on the west coast.  
  
The world was bigger in those days, before the invention of the wireless and the telegraph, but somehow word about Immortal fighters got around. Karolek knew that Connor was a contemporary of his, trained by Ramirez and therefore likely to be pretty good. Duncan was less well known, but had the build and singlemindedness to be a good fighter in his time. Likewise, Connor knew that Romanov had a rather fearsome reputation as a fighter who'd taken a lot of Quickenings in a short time.  
  
Prudence would have dictated that they all go their separate ways, leaving well enough. The odds should have suggested that some combination of the three would have fought, maybe more than one depending on the outcome. But prudence and the odds are not always right. Duncan and Karolek initially got on like a house afire. The younger of the two Highlanders welcomed the contact with another, older Immortal as a chance to continue learning. Karolek appreciated the man's more optimistic outlook - one which had been missing from his life since Irina's death.  
  
Connor and Karolek, however, were cut from molds too similar to get along easily. Based on his past reputation, Connor did not believe Karolek could be trusted with Duncan alone, and so stayed by his kinsman while Karolek was showing Duncan what he knew. Karolek suffered the elder Highlander's presence, figuring it to be a fair one given the reputation he'd so recently discarded. Brighid was kind and welcoming to the two men, both of whom were unfailingly polite to her. The more Karolek and Connor talked to one another, the more they realized they had in common. In the end, it was the similar losses of their first wives that allowed the older Immortals to connect. But while Connor continued to mourn the loss of Heather and still did, Karolek had let Irina rest and moved on with his life.  
  
Over the years, the two men had developed a strong friendship. Connor was not the type to trust easily, and for that reason the Highlander's friendship meant all the more to the Russian Prince. They stayed in touch through letters, and when they found themselves in the same part of the world they would arrange to meet.  
  
Having not sent Connor a letter since settling at the coffee shop, Karolek was surprised to see him there. Determined not to let his surprise dampen the reunion, he quickly crossed the room to his stunned friend.  
  
For his own part, Connor was equally stunned to see Karolek wearing what, by all accounts, was an apron. The last place he'd ever pictured a former prince working was in a little shop like this. Answering Karolek's earlier question, he responded, "Passing through Washington on my way to Richmond. The better question is what are ye doing here?" He embraced his old friend before standing back and sizing up the outfit. "And wearing an apron, no less."  
  
"I'll have you know it's a towel, Connor, not an apron." Karolek growled with feigned indignance. Connor merely raised his eyebrows and chuckled lightly. "I'm working here."  
  
"Why?" Connor asked, echoing Erich's question from a few weeks ago.  
  
"It's a job. I like the people," Karolek explained, adding, "most of the time, anyway," in a stage whisper.  
  
Connor nodded his head absently, though he admitted to himself that it did make a certain amount of sense. Karolek had always had unusual choices as far as employment and amusement went. He remembered quite vividly a rather unfortunate incident in Athens in the 1820's involving a goat and a rather angry neighboring vineyard owner that still made him shudder. Often Karolek's actions made very little sense to anyone but Karolek. Better not to question too hard.  
  
"I'm only in town overnight." Connor explained, after placing his order for a ham sandwich and some black coffee. "I have a meeting I need to attend in Richmond tomorrow. Are you up for a night on the town, Karo?"  
  
"Sounds good to me." Karolek replied with a bright grin as Nellie came back out with Connor's coffee.  
  
"Sandwich will be up in a minute." The widow said, with as much cheerfulness as she usually mustered for her male customers. She raised an eyebrow at Karolek, plainly asking who this man was he was sitting with in the middle of a work day.  
  
"Mrs. Jacobsen, let me introduce you to a friend of mine." Karolek responded pleasantly. "This is Connor MacLeod, an old friend." Karolek never bothered to learn any of Connor's aliases. It never struck him as worth the effort to keep it straight, except for the few war years when Connor had been serving in the artillery. "Connor, this is Mrs. Nellie Jacobsen, the owner of the shop."  
  
"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jacobsen." Connor nodded at the woman.  
  
"Likewise, Mr. MacLeod." Nellie returned. "Your accent is unusual. Where are you from, Mr. MacLeod?"  
  
In another world, one less beset by wars and where continents and former countries were not split only by boarders and accents, the question might have been a little less loaded. With another man besides the Highlander, the question might not have mattered quite so much. Connor's Highland speech had mellowed considerably over the years, but he didn't sound much like an American and Nellie knew it. She was fishing, trying to find out information about Karolek without sounding so direct about it. "I'm from lots of different places."  
  
"I'll not be around for supper, Mrs. Jacobsen." Karolek interjected into the long silence that followed. "Connor is only in town overnight. We haven't seen each other in years, and I'd like to do some catching up."  
  
Nellie sighed, "very well. See to it that you're quiet when you come in."  
  
"Yes, ma'am." Karolek replied. Nellie retreated into the back of the shop, leaving the two Immortals alone in the front room.  
  
"She's pleasant." Connor muttered.  
  
"You get used to her after a while." Karolek said, tipping his chair back against the wall. "If it's any consolation, she doesn't dislike you in particular. She doesn't like men in general, or so Clara tells me?"  
  
"Clara?"  
  
"Her daughter. She's upstairs doing her homework."  
  
"Pity." Connor said with a wink that was meant to be suggestive.  
  
"Sorry Connor, but you're not really my type." Connor made an offensive gesture out of sight of the table, prompting the Russian to bust out in loud laughter. "And Clara is only 15. Get your mind out of the gutter."  
  
"Ah, but I'm only 18, now aren't I?" Connor chuckled. Looking up from his sandwich, he caught the expression on his friend's face. Karolek's clear gray eyes were growing stormy, a sign that the Russian prince was nearing the end of his temper. The Highlander nodded and allowed the subject to drop. It didn't take a man of his years to understand that Karolek cared for the young daughter of his employer, though in what way Connor couldn't yet tell. He decided to change the subject, asking eagerly, "When do you get out of this prison?"  
  
Karolek raised his eyes in a gesture of thought. "Around 6:30, I think. Once we're done cleaning up after the last customer leaves." He looked at Connor and sighed heavily. "Whatever it is that you're planning, it's not going to get us arrested again, is it? Because I have to tell you, that jail in Tuscany was enough to last me for a few centuries and then some."  
  
"Karo, sometimes you are entirely no fun, are you aware of that?" Connor smiled wolfishly. "Besides, what good is a night on the town if you don't get good and thoroughly drunk?"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Karolek was still feeling the effects of his hangover when he went to meet Erich the next afternoon. The only consolation he'd managed to take from the evening was that Connor had been suffering just as badly when he'd boarded his train from Washington to Richmond. He wasn't sure how he was going to manage this session with Erich without either getting whupped from here to next week or lectured about the amount that he'd had to drink last night. The beer that he and Connor had consumed at a number of different taverns last night would have surely killed a mortal man, and Karolek wasn't so sure that it might not yet still claim him.  
  
When he arrived at the warehouse, he noticed something was off, even through his severely hampered haze. Karolek stopped at the walkway leading up to the warehouse, finally deciding what the problem was. There was no Buzz. Erich wasn't there, or if he was he was way out of sensing range.  
  
His mental problems forgotten, Karolek put a cautious hand on the hilt of his sword before silently opening the door to the warehouse. Stepping in, he crept slowly to the door of the office. No Erich. He cast his eyes around the large open space. He saw no body and no blood, nothing to suggest that there had been a fight. "-If Erich were alive anywhere in the warehouse, I would be able to sense him.-" The Russian muttered to himself. "von Ridesel is not the type to forget we're supposed to meet on Saturdays, and he would have sent a note or some kind of signal if he had to cancel."  
  
Lacking another idea as to where his friend might be, Karolek shed his overcoat and drew his broadsword from its usual harness. If he was going to wandering about the place without knowing what had happened, he was certainly going to go armed. His black shin-length coat fell to the floor, a barely present muffled clack sounding as the harness hit concrete. His newsboy's cap followed suit, and he raised his sword in a ready position as he made his way towards the crates stacked in the back corner.  
  
An hour later, Karolek had searched the warehouse from top to bottom without finding anything. None of the crates were disturbed except for the ones he had moved. No blood, no sword, nothing to suggest that anything out of the ordinary had happened here...except that Erich was still missing. And Erich was not the type to go randomly missing for nothing.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
HMS Doncaster 50 Nautical Miles from Norfolk, VA  
  
"You stare at the sea as though it is going to get us to Philadelphia faster." Sir Edward Philips commented to his young aide. "It's not much further, really."  
  
"I suppose not." The young Englishman replied, brushing a lock of reddish hair from his eyes. "You could say I've never been much for boats." He waved a graceful hand at the stars and the half moon. "Especially boats at night."  
  
"Oh?" Philips, the new British ambassador to the United States commented, leaning his jacketed arms against the railing. "And why not? It certainly beats flying somewhere in a plane." Philips shuddered violently at the thought, though it may have been the cutting cold winds which prompted the shiver. As cold as it was on the deck of the Doncaster, a refitted WWI battleship, it beat being in what passed for a cabin.  
  
"I don't know. Seems to me that planes are the wave of the future, Edward. It wouldn't do for you to be left behind the times, would it?"  
  
Edward laughed, patting the young man's shoulder. "I suppose you are right."  
  
"How long until we reach Philadelphia?"  
  
"Two days. Maybe three." Philips stroked his beard in thought. "We have to be met by an escort from the US navy. They're still worried about mines in Delaware Bay from the last war." Shivering again, Edward pulled his scarf a little more tightly around his neck. "I'm going back in to the coffee pot. Remind me to thank His Majesty for the wonderful accommodations. Don't stay out too long, James."  
  
"Of course not, sir." James replied, returning to staring at the waves.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Karolek's search of the neighborhood surrounding the warehouse halted as he approached the edge of the river. Several of the warehouses had docks, which allowed them to load supplies from larger ships onto boats and into their warehouses before distributing them inland. As he exited Erich's warehouse and moved to go back to the coffee house, he felt the beginnings of an Immortal Buzz sneaking around his head.  
  
"Erich?" Karolek called out cautiously, reaching for his restored sword. "Is that you?" Getting no answer, the Russian looked around to make sure he was alone. Seeing no one, he carefully drew his sword from it's hiding place in his overcoat, holding it before him in a defensive position. He crept around the sturdy edge of the warehouse, drawing closer to the source of the oh-so-familiar sensation.  
  
And then he spotted the figure. A tall man with brown hair sat on a crate at the end of the docks, staring at murky gray water. His hat sat beside him on the decking of the dock, and his overcoat tails were also fluttering in the breeze. Though the man appeared to be older, he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his chin on his knees, just like a little boy who is trying to make himself as small as he possibly can. The other Immortal gave no sign of recognizing that Karolek was anywhere near him, but continued to stare at the waters of the Potomac as if they held some secret to the mysteries of the world.  
  
Concerned, Karolek slipped on almost noiseless booted feet towards the huddled Immortal. The click of the heel of his boot on the concrete and wood of the dock seemed to snap the man out of his reverie, and the dispassionate face of Erich von Ridesel turned to face his approaching friend. "Ah, Karolek." The German's flat voice seemed to be coming from somewhere other than his own mouth. Karolek furrowed his expressive brows in concern. He'd never seen his friend quite so...lost before. "Is it time for our session already?"  
  
"It was time for our session almost an hour and a half ago, Erich." Karolek said softly. He didn't know what to make of this other Erich. "Is something wrong?"  
  
For the first time, Erich saw the gleaming silver and steel broadsword in Karolek's left hand. "-It seems I should be asking you that question, no?- " Luckily, Karolek's German was worlds better than Erich's Russian, and he glanced down at the weapon he hadn't realized he was still holding.  
  
"Erich, what is wrong?" Karolek said, trying to muster some vehemence into his voice.  
  
"Some days, my friend, it seems a waste to be what we are."  
  
"Have you been drinking?"  
  
Erich sighed heavily. "No, I have not. I have been THINKING, which I believe is all the worse."  
  
"You going to tell me what's wrong?"  
  
"This, Karolek Romanov, is what is wrong." The German pulled a newspaper from the inside of his overcoat and tossed it at the Russian. "The Philadelphia Journal. It came down from the city yesterday."  
  
Karolek deftly caught the thrown paper and opened it to the front page. The Journal had a long article praising the appointment of a new British ambassador to the USA, replacing the old one who had died of a heart attack only two months before. "Sir Edward Philips sails for Richmond to assume the role of British Ambassador to the United States." Karolek read, skimming down through the article. "I don't see what's so awful about this..." he trailed off, voice fading away.  
  
Accompanying the article was a picture of the new ambassador, taken almost two years ago at a function at the court of King George V. Philips was seen shaking hands with the Queen, but that wasn't the part of the picture that caught the Russian's eye. To the left of Philips, in the background, was a man identified as the Lord's personal aide, James J. Tudor.  
  
Karolek shivered involuntarily, as he looked at the unmistakable features of Jacob Book.  
  
Erich noticed the gesture and smiled an odd, sad, humorless smile. "I said the same thing, myself." He sighed loudly. "I've been sitting here on my dock, wondering whether to smile or curse at fortune."  
  
Karolek said nothing for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. When he did finally speak, the haunted note in his voice was clearly present, and his Russian accent was thickened slightly from emotion. "Are you going to go after him?"  
  
"I just don't know, Karo." Erich said mournfully. "I just don't know. He was a good fighter 50 years ago. There is no reason to think he is not a good fighter now."  
  
"You're a good fighter." Karolek said encouragingly.  
  
Erich smiled that odd smile again. "Danke schoen, Karolek. But you and I both know that while I can be sneaky, I am not the same kind of fighter as Jacob Book. I fight because I must. He fights because he ENJOYS it...because he can."  
  
"So what are you going to do, then?"  
  
Erich shook his head. He didn't know what he was going to do. He'd never seen Book fight, but he knew the man's reputation through Karolek. He wasn't sure he was good enough to beat the Brit. He had no doubt that, if he truly wanted to, Karolek could. The question was, then, did Karolek want to fight his old ghost? "For now, I plan to do nothing. There is nothing I can do, with Book in Philadelphia in some official capacity. I would most likely be killed for my efforts, and I like the life I have right now."  
  
Erich may have thought he was being sly, leading up to what he was eventually going to propose. Karolek, however, had been a fan of chess from the time his father Konstantin had shown him how to play when he was seven. The elder Romanov thought of chess as a wonderful lesson in strategy, and he had thought it important that Karolek and his younger brothers Ondrezj and Vassili all knew how to play. Vassili had grown bored wit the game, and Ondrezj had never shown much interest in anything other than attacking. Karolek, however, ate up the idea of strategy. He was still a very good chess player, which is why he was three moves ahead of Erich.  
  
"The British ambassador will be in Washington in a little less than two months for the inauguration." Karolek said flatly. "Book will come with him. You know if he senses one of us he'll come looking for the fight." Erich blushed slightly, telling Karolek he'd hit pay dirt. "And you want me to be the one he fights."  
  
"Yes." Erich said fiercely, eyes bright with anger. His accent and the barely controlled rage in his voice made him sound like a man possessed. Had Karolek not know the man as well as he did, he might have taken several steps back as a precaution. As it was, he was surprised at the outburst. "I don't know if I can beat him. Are you satisfied? I don't think I am strong enough to fight him and win. I want to be, but I don't know if I am. YOU ARE. You were 250 years ago, and you probably are now. I want Schuyler to rest in peace, knowing his killer was killed. You said you thought he was a good man, now I'm asking you as a friend to stand up for him where I can not."  
  
The Russian prince's expressive face was alternately sad, reflective, and slightly angry. "I'm not the man who goes looking for fights anymore, Erich."  
  
"You came looking for me in that graveyard!" Erich shouted. "You knew we were on Holy Ground but you came to find me anyway. A man looking to stay out of fights would have stayed as far away from me as he could. You WANTED a fight!"  
  
"I DID NOT!" Karolek roared back, spurred to anger. "I didn't then and I don't know!" He ran a hand through his hair, pulling it loose from its ponytail. "I regret leaving Book alive knowing what he's become, but I don't go hunting my regrets."  
  
"-Then what good is a headhunter who will not hunt?-" Erich spat in angry German. "-You claim to have become a man of peace. Perhaps this is a clever disguise for becoming a coward." He muttered something that Karolek couldn't catch, before going one step too far. "Maybe Grayson is right to think Darius a coward. Maybe you are one too."  
  
Just as he'd never seen the sword coming at their first practice session, so too did he never see the fist which struck him squarely in the face. Surprised by the blow, Erich stumbled to the ground and raised a hand to his bleeding nose.  
  
"Darius is a good man who made an impossible decision." Karolek growled at the man, fists ready to go again. "I am NO COWARD." He looked squarely in Erich's hostile brown eyes. "A coward is a man who looks to others to take the risks he is unwilling to take himself."  
  
"I won't associate with such cowards. Hunt Book yourself." With those parting words, Karolek spun on his heel and stormed out of the dockyard, leaving Erich still bleeding behind him. 


	4. A Different Sort of Hell

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Highlander and its characters are the property of their creators and production companies. The Jacobsens, Sylvia Enos, and the universe are the creation of Harry Turtledove. Don't own them and making no profit.  
  
I'm actually a really HORRIBLE chess player and a shame to my friends who are actually quite good. :) I also make a hash of the Romanov ascension to the Russian throne, which happened later than my story actually implies.  
  
Chapter 4: A Different Sort of Hell  
  
Three weeks later (Roughly mid-January, 1936)  
  
The snow and ice of an unseasonably cold DC winter had forced most residents of the city into their homes and near their stoves, heaters, and fireplaces. The coffee shop on Beech Street was no exception. Nellie was downstairs, cleaning tables and windows that didn't need cleaning and grumbling to herself about the lack of customers. Clearly, she thought that the cold should have made people more interested in coffee and hot food, but what it actually was doing was keeping people from coming out at all. She moved from table to table, front room to kitchen, floors to windows with a rag and some soap and a harsh mood.  
  
Wisely, perhaps, the younger inhabitants had retreated upstairs, away from the commotion. Clara was nominally reading a novel written by a woman named Sylvia Enos for her modern literature class. While the story, of a war widow who had found and shot the Confederate submersible captain who had downed her husband's ship after the armistice went into effect, was certainly interesting, Clara found it difficult to keep her mind and her eyes on her school work. Instead, she settled for watching the shop assistant over the top edge of the book, enjoying the unrecognized and unobstructed view.  
  
The object of her scrutiny seemed wholly unaware it was going on. Karolek Romanov was, as he had been for most of the past three weeks or even the past few months, thinking. Thinking about Book's arrival in the United States, Erich's desperate and angry plea for action...and what move he should make against Connor in the chess-by-mail game that they'd started on Connor's return trip through Washington.  
  
"What are you going to do about this boy's request?" Connor asked his friend, moving the first pawn to open the game.  
  
"I don't know." Karolek admitted. "On one hand, Book is dangerous. On the other, he hasn't affected me personally in a very long time." He moved his own opener, returning the play to the Highlander.  
  
"Aye, but the last time you met he threatened to kill you as soon as he found you."  
  
"Ok, so that's a point worth considering."  
  
Connor laughed dryly. "Yes, I suppose it is."  
  
"What would you do if you were me?" Karolek asked, honestly seeking his friend's advice.  
  
Connor thought for a moment, finally deciding on the safest answer he could give. "Wish I was someone else, I suppose."  
  
Karolek growled in frustration. "-Thank you.-"  
  
"Hey, you asked, I answered." Connor protested, moving a rook into position opposite one of Karolek's pawns. "Personally, I think you've gotten yourself into a mess of a situation with von Ridesel. The way I see it, you can either wait for Book to find you, as he will eventually, hunt him first, or stick your head in the sand and hope it will all go away. The first two are fairly equal in their result: you'll still have to fight him, and we both know that could go either way. The third is the way of fools and cowards, and I've never known you to be much of either." Steepling his fingers, Connor leaned back in his chair and shrugged his shoulders. "So endeth the lesson of the elder."  
  
In mid move, Karolek bit back a snort and both glared and grinned at Connor. "One year of age and four years in the Game makes you older, not elder. Besides, that was crappy advice anyway. I could have come up with THAT on my own."  
  
"Make your move, Karo, before I go gray over here."  
  
"You couldn't go gray if your life depended on it." Karolek sniped back, moving a bishop and glaring at his friend.  
  
"You look very far away, Karolek." A soft voice broke into his musings. "Is something wrong?"  
  
The prince's head snapped up, and his eyes slowly focused on Clara's face as he forced himself not to reach for the dagger hidden in a sheath at the base of his neck. It was a regrettable habit that he'd developed during the Great War, when he was unable to carry his sword with him. It would have been very strange for any person, especially a sniper, to go wandering around with nearly three feet of sharpened steel among their kit. Blending in aside, no sensible Immortal - or at least one who wanted to live long - would go around completely unarmed. The dagger was Karolek's compromise, the companion piece to his broadsword, and it had come in rather handy during a Confederate raid on the trenches where he happened to be sleeping. Nineteen years later, he still hadn't shed the habit of carrying it. "I'm sorry, Clara?"  
  
"Is something wrong?" the young girl repeated herself, staring in confusion at the young man. "You look lost in thought, like something is troubling you a great deal."  
  
'You could say that.' Karolek mused to himself. 'I'm trying to decide whether I need to become the me I was...a man I now abhor, but who has the fire needed to get out of this mess I seem to find myself in.' "I'm just thinking about what move I should mail to Connor, Clara. That's all."  
  
"It seems to be taking you a very long time." Clara settled herself on the footstool opposite the small table where the chessboard was set up.  
  
Karolek offered the girl an indulgent smile. "Chess isn't meant to be played quickly, Clara." He picked up his lost pawn from its resting place next to the board, a magnificent inlaid set which had been given to him by his nephew, Mikhail, not long after the boy had assumed the Russian throne. "It's a game of strategy. You have to know what pieces to move, and when, and when a sacrifice is necessary for your overall objective."  
  
Clara nodded slowly. "Which is what, exactly?"  
  
"To win, of course." Karolek chuckled at the embarrassed look which appeared on the teenager's face. Obviously Clara felt she should have known that. "There IS a reason why many of the top military colleges also produce excellent chess players. Chess strategy is not altogether different from military strategy."  
  
Which was, of course, the reason he and his father had spent so many of his boyhood hours by the fireside in the palace he'd called home in Moscow. Konstantin Romanov had wanted to ensure that his heir would be a sound military leader as well as a political force. In the absence of real battles and after Karolek was done with whatever martial or academic tutor was scheduled for his day, his father would find time to resume their current game. Karolek smiled at the memories of long winter nights, spent with his father's undivided attention. By 14 the crown prince could last against his father for a few hours at a time. By 15 he beat the man for the first time, and by the time he was 17, winning became a regular occurrence. By his 19th birthday, his father was dead and the chess games became military strategy in the flesh rather than the abstract.  
  
"Will you teach me?"  
  
Karolek frowned. "You want to learn how to play chess?"  
  
"Sure." Clara sat up, looking at the board. "It's a checker board. How hard can it be?"  
  
"Riiight." Karolek drawled slowly, attempting to hide an amused smile. "Well, let's find out, shall we?"  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Four hours later, Clara gave up on the game. While she discovered that learning how all the different pieces moved wasn't quite so hard, losing game after game to Karolek in the span of 15 moves or so did take a lot of the thrill out of the skill. And, as she might have suspected, Nellie returned from the deserted shop to start dinner and railed at Clara for wasting time and Karolek for indulging her. Clara was sent to her room, Karolek excused himself from the apartment. She'd watched with a certain degree of envy as Karolek pulled on his coat, scarf, and hat and disappeared out of the building. 'How swell it must be to be able to go where you please when you please and not have to answer to a mother.'  
  
"Awfully rude of him to just storm out like that." Nellie complained to her daughter, not expecting an answer. "Off with you. Get that reading done!"  
  
"I'd go if I could." Clara mumbled under her breath, making as much noise as she could as she went to her exile. "One of these days I'll get out of here and travel the world. I'll see everything there is to see and I'll NEVER come back to Washington again."  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
It was well on to Saturday morning before Karolek actually turned back to Beech Street and the coffee house. In the hours that he'd been out he'd visited several taverns, staying only long enough to have a single beer before his wanderlust took over and forced him back out into the streets. He figured that he'd had somewhere between 5 and 10 drinks. As a result of his Immortality, however, the experience had left him about 5 dollars lighter and not the least bit buzzed or relaxed. That would have taken a great deal more of something much stronger than beer. Of course, the many miles he'd walked trying to think out his life would work against him, as well.  
  
In the few months that he'd been sparring with Erich, he probably would have saved the problem in his mind and mentioned it to the German while they worked out. Unfortunately, Erich now lay at the heart of his problem. Either he betrayed his friend and let Book go, which could also entail standing by while Book killed Erich (as he didn't believe that Erich was *truly* capable of fighting the Brit) or he betrayed himself and became a headhunter once again. Neither was an option he particularly enjoyed.  
  
As the Russian's thoughts drifted while his feet took him home, he conceded that maybe Khan Seh had a point when he was training Karolek 400 years ago at the court of Ivan IV. The new Immortal had, in disguise, been working as a swordsman in the palace. He maintained the swords of the palace guards and the tsar himself, making sure they were always in good repair and ready at a moment's notice. Khan Seh had arrived as an ambassador from China, and had taken the youngster under his wing. With a solid background in the basics, he'd proved a willing student for the swordsmanship. He had a much harder time dealing with what his teacher told him about the realities of Immortal life.  
"To stay in one place so long...to form attachments and make friendships, this will only serve to hurt you in the end, Karolek. For an Immortal to remain strong he must remain free from attempting to impose the laws of mortality on our kind."  
"There can be only one." Karolek recited.  
"Yes."  
"Suppose I don't agree with that?"  
"That is your right." Khan Seh conceded. "Maybe in time you will prove me wrong." Immortal friendship outside of the teacher-student relationship was still a point of contention between the 418 year old Russian and the 1300 year old Mongol, and likely it always would be. In his current mood, however, Karolek probably would have surrendered the battle and hoped for better in a new match up later in the war.  
  
The signature of an Immortal presence pulled him from his thoughts. "- Crap. Because this is EXACTLY what I needed on a night like tonight. A Challenge.-" Sighing heavily, Karolek put a hand on the hilt of his sword. Maybe this would be Erich, or someone else he could convince just to go away. Maybe his luck would change for today, and he could go on to bed as he planned before finding somewhere to spend alone with his sword tomorrow. He wasn't in the mood to fight, and her certainly wasn't in the mood to deal with all the energy that came with taking a Quickening. Maybe his challenger would leave him alone.  
  
Or maybe he would meet a thug from Spain who wanted to enhance his own meager reputation by taking out someone with a bigger one. "Greetings, Prince."  
  
Karolek sized up the man standing in the gateway of the half-empty lot in back of the coffee house. The man was not exceptionally tall, maybe about his height. He had short black hair, tawny complexion, and dark brown eyes. Discounting the crew cut, Karolek could have been looking at his photo negative, so far was the man removed from his pale Slavic skin, hair, and gray eyes. "Now you have me at a loss. You think know who I am, and I am quite certain that I have never met you."  
  
"So very sorry." The Spaniard bowed. "Maximiliano Ruiz. Feel free to call me Max if you like. I doubt it will matter. You won't be alive long enough to use it." He twirled his rapier and drew his dagger, as if to make his point.  
  
"I see." Karolek slowly drew his own blade, feeling the reassuring heft in his left hand. "I have no quarrel with you. What do you want to fight me for?"  
  
"There's benefit in it." Max admitted. "A little bit of fame can't hurt me."  
  
"You think I'm famous." Karolek forced out a chuckle. Funny, though not ha-ha funny, that all these Immortals thought having a reputation was such a good thing when it was the very thing that had caused them to seek him out in the first place. "I can assure you that I am not."  
  
Max grinned. "But of course you're famous. Karolek Romanov, the Russian Prince. Headhunter turned coward who hides among mortals. Yes, I know all about you." He made a tsking noise with his tongue. "If you really wanted to hide, Prince, you should have gotten rid of your name."  
  
"If it's a reputation you want, there are more important people than me you could kill." Connor sprung immediately to his mind, though he wouldn't rat on a friend to save his own skin. "Go and fight the Kurgan or Grayson or someone. Leave me out of it. I'm not worth the effort."  
  
"But you I can beat." Max lifted his sword into the ready position. "I can't beat Grayson any more than I could beat the Kurgan. No, you'll do for a start, Romanov. Then I'll worry about moving up in the world."  
  
"Nice to see you're open to discussion." The Russian commented sarcastically. "Maybe we should move this out of sight of prying eyes? This is not exactly a neighborhood where the sound of steel on steel will go unnoticed." He motioned to the back of the lot, where the remnants of an office building stood. It had been shelled during the fight to take back Washington in the Great War. The owner fled south with the remains of the Confederate Army, and no one had ever taken up the lot. With the Depression, it was likely that no one would for some time. It was as good a place as any to undertake a sword fight.  
  
"Of course." Max said, attempting to be formally cordial. "After you."  
  
"I think not. This is your fight, not mine. I'd just as soon go home." He made a shooing motion with his free hand. "I'll follow YOU."  
  
"Anything to make a man's last moments easier." Max rested his rapier against his right shoulder, hopping over a small pile of dirt and making his way into the downstairs area of the building. One whole wall had mostly crumbled down over time, leaving gaping holes where the faint glow of the lights from Beech Street and the houses entered the space. It gave the two men just enough light to fight by, though if Max had been wearing brown or black, Karolek might not have been able to see him all that well. As it was...well they weren't the best circumstances that Karolek had ever fought in, but given the alternative he'd make the best of it.  
  
As he entered the building, his darkened gray eyes carefully examined the place, taking note of boxes, rubble, and other obstacles on the floor as well as of support beams and other things he could use to hide behind to regroup if he wanted. He slowly shed his coat, dropping it and his scarf to the floor. He didn't want to take the chance of them getting in his way.  
  
Max spun to face Karolek, sword at the ready. "Shall we begin?"  
  
"No time like the present."  
  
Max launched the first attack, Karolek taking advantage of the flurry of activity to defend and see where any gaps might be in the Spaniard's attack. There weren't many. However old Ruiz was, he'd spent a lot of time training with that sword. This was going to be a tougher fight than Karolek really wanted. He decided to let Max do most of the attacking for a bit, hoping that he could tire the other man out. Defense was easier on his muscles and his mind.  
  
The fight was fairly even, both men being of similar size and reasonably similar skill. Ruiz managed a deep slice through Karolek's left arm, forcing the Russian to switch his sword to his right hand. Luckily, like many left handed people, Karo was functionally ambidexterous and dealt Ruiz a sharp stab to his dagger-hand shoulder while the Spaniard's guard was down.  
  
Max hissed through his teeth, pressing his hand against his shoulder and darting behind a post to avoid Karolek's burgeoning attack while his shoulder healed. The slice to his arm wasn't slowing his opponent down the way he intended, and he needed some time to recover. Karolek wasn't having any of the tactic, and pursued his quarry across the room. Maximiliano had foolishly assumed that anyone who chose to associate with mortals was too soft to be a serious competitor. He was now learning the lesson that Erich von Ridesel had learned during his first training session: a very dangerous man lurked within the unassuming exterior of the Russian Prince.  
  
Karolek swung his sword, intending to catch Max on the run and end the battle. Max nimbly darted out of the way, and Karolek's broadsword bit into the rotting wooden support column and stuck. Karolek tugged furiously, trying to dislodge the blade.  
  
A slow grin worked its way across Max's dark face. "Tsk tsk tsk, Prince." Max crooned, raising his sword and coming around the column to where Karolek was still fighting with the handle of his sword. "Too much emotion. Let's at least see you die like a man." He drew back his arm, preparing to end the fight. Karolek gave one last desperate pull at his sword, which slid from the pole. He took a page from Max's book and ducked at the last second, pulling the dagger from its sheath at the back of his neck and putting it firmly through Max's heart.  
  
Max, expecting his sword to hit pay dirt, went pale and wide eyed as it hit nothing and pain exploded through his chest. His chocolate brown eyes looked down at the glittering ruby and silver handle now protruding from him. "You son of a bitch." He rasped breathily, rapier clattering to the floor as he sank to his knees.  
  
"Tell me one I haven't heard before." Karolek said, putting the blade of his broadword to Max's neck, gray eyes dark with anger, adrenaline, and purpose. "Do you have any last words."  
  
"Go to hell."  
  
The Russian smiled humorlessly. "Someday, I'm sure. But not today." He pulled his hand to the left, severing Max's head from his shoulders. "No, not today," he whispered, pulling his dagger from Max's heart as the Quickening began to swirl about him. 'I get to live in a different sort of hell.' The last conscious thought floated through Karolek's mind as the bolts of energy began to hit his exhausted body and the world exploded around him.  
  
As Ruiz's Quickening finished swirling about him, Karolek dropped to his knees in exhaustion. He realized for the first time in the forty-five minutes he'd been fighting Max that it was bitterly cold and beginning to snow again. He needed to get inside his room...a little bit of sleep would be exactly what he needed to cure his ills...after he dealt with the headless body he'd just created. Children liked to play in the ruins after school, even through their mothers told them not to. 'Kids don't need to see a sight like this.' Slowly, the exhausted Immortal pulled himself to his feet, wiping the blood from his sword and dagger on Max's shirt. He slid the dagger into the hidden sheath at his neck and used his sword to lever himself back into a standing position.  
  
And then he saw it. The shadow cast from the now even larger hole in the building wall. A short shadow, with long brown hair, shivering in a coat and a nightgown.  
  
"Clara."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Philadelphia, PA  
  
While Karolek was fighting for his life against Maximiliano Ruiz in a DC ruin, Jacob Book was at the British Embassy getting a little early work done. As the personal assistant to the ambassador, many of the people at the embassy thought that James Tudor was a little too dedicated to his work. No one needed to spend that much time filing papers and checking passport requests, especially someone so highly placed in the office. Especially not someone who was reasonably handsome and could surely find himself female company somewhere.  
  
What they didn't know, and what Book wasn't about to tell them, was that he was checking the application requests against birth and death certificates, looking for inconsistencies that might spell the location of another Immortal. In this new world of the wireless, it was next to impossible to walk down the road to another city and pretend to be someone new, the way it had been when Carlsson had found him outside of London in the 1680's. People today needed identities, nationalities...something a passport could give them. Considering the state of the world, US and German passports were the most desirable, but also the hardest to come by. Many Immortals, so went Book's logic, would resort to British passports because they were easier.  
  
When Henrik Carlsson found Jacob shivering under an abandoned hay cart, the young Brit hadn't wanted to believe in the concept of "There Can Be Only One." It hadn't seemed like reality to him, any more than Quickenings or Challenges had. Oh he'd believed it, because Carlsson told him it was true, and he figured he owed the man at least that much. He'd just never planned on putting the theory into practice.  
  
Then, about six years later, he and Henrik had met up with Karolek Romanov. Carlsson challenged the Russian, believing his reputation to be built on the sand. Jacob begged him to reconsider. His teacher had refused to believe he could be beaten. Only he was. Romanov was every bit as good as his reputation suggested and then a little bit better. He took Henrik's head without a second thought, and Book imagined that he seemed to relish the Quickening that followed.  
  
Not knowing what else to do, and believing he needed to honor his teacher with vengeance, Book had drawn his sword and challenged the killer that stood before him.  
"You don't want to do that, kid." Karolek had insisted, wiping the blood from his blade.  
"Yes, I do." Book insisted, confidence wavering. "What? Am I not worth the fight to you?"  
Karolek sighed. "You don't need to do this, boy. Carlsson was too eager. You could have a long life if you let this go."  
"Are you going to fight me or not, coward?!?"  
"As you wish." Karolek said, returning his sword to the ready position. Book made the first attack, and inside of a minute the Russian had him disarmed and on his knees.  
Book glared at the man through hate-filled eyes. "Do it."  
Karolek shook his head, pulling the blade back a bit from the Brit's neck. "I think not. When I go, I suggest you take your sword and head elsewhere. The next person won't be quite as kind as I am, and they'll take your foolish head right off of your shoulders." He backed away a few more steps. "Next time, fight someone closer to your own weight, boy." Book dropped his head in shame at the criticism, looking up only when the victor's signature was out of range. Collapsing on himself, Book began to sob.  
  
A year later, he met Grayson. Grayson was a true warrior in Book's eyes, strong and capable and fully devoted to the idea that revenge was indeed best served cold. Grayson taught him everything that Carlsson hadn't, couldn't or wouldn't. He became a strong fighter. He embraced the Game and stopped shying away from challenges. And he began to plot the best way to find and kill Karolek Romanov.  
  
"James?" Jacob looked up from the papers he'd been staring at, seeing his boss standing in the doorway.  
  
"Something I can do for you, Sir Edward?" He asked, hurriedly standing. He buttoned his jacket and ran a hand through his red-blond hair, pushing it into a semblance of order.  
  
"What are you doing here at this hour of the morning, son?" Edward Philips motioned to the papers strewn about the desk. "The guard downstairs said you came in at 4:30 this morning."  
  
Jacob blushed slightly at the grandfatherly fussing. "I couldn't sleep, sir. I thought as long as I was going to be an insomniac, I might as well get some work done." He gathered the applications back into their file. "Is there something you needed?"  
  
"Yes, as a matter of fact." Edward motioned for Jacob to follow him out of the office. "We need to start checking with the Americans about the reservations and what not for the inauguration. It's in a little more than a month, you know." Philips placed an arm on Jacob's shoulder, guiding him down the hallway. "Come along James, and we'll get some coffee and get started."  
  
Shooting a longing glance at the papers on his desk, Jacob dutifully followed the ambassador down the hallway to the canteen. Hunting Romanov would have to wait a little longer.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Clara Jacobsen stood at the mouth of the building, hands pressed to a pale face, eyes wide as she took in the decapitated body, the mess created by the Quickening, the sword, and the large and bloody slice on Karolek's left arm. Her hair was unbraided, hanging loosely down her back. She'd been dozing in bed, Sylvia Enos's book on her stomach, when she'd been awoken by the sound of clinking metal outside her window. At first, she thought it was a burglar or something, trying to get in downstairs. As she rose from her resting position, she thought she saw sparks or something coming from the abandoned building in the lot catty-corner to the coffee shop. 'Maybe it's tramps or something.' Clara mused, pulling on her boots over bare feet and slinking quietly down the hallway. A glance into Karolek's room showed a perfectly made bed. He still hadn't come home. The clock in the hallway declared it to be 4:30 in the morning. The girl grabbed her coat from its hook in the wall next to the door, pulling it on as she quietly crept down the stairs. A quick look to satisfy her curiosity and then she'd go back to bed.  
  
The back door off the kitchen opened smoothly and with no noise. She said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever had possessed her mother to get Karolek to oil the hinges last week, considering that they never used the door. She crunched through the old snowfall in the yard as silently as she could, slipping out into the alley and down to the opening of the deserted building where she thought she saw sparks.  
  
She arrived at the entrance just in time to see a strange, dark skinned man swinging...a *sword* at Karolek? Her hands came up to her mouth as she watched her friend duck the sword, pull a long knife from seemingly nowhere, and drive it into the stranger's chest. The man muttered a curse at Karolek, who asked if he had any last words. Who was this person masquerading as Karolek? The man she knew was incapable of acting so harsh, and certainly incapable of committing murder. The stranger told Karolek he could go to hell. Karolek answered the insult with a somber "Someday, I'm sure. But not today," before neatly slicing off the man's head with the sword he'd shown Clara when he first moved in.  
  
Clara lost her dinner as the fierce electrical storm erupted in the confined space of the building. She watched, horrified, as an unearthly glow seemed to seep from the dead stranger into this ball of energy, before bolts of it began to strike Karolek where he knelt on the ground. The roar of the storm drowned out Clara's retching and Karolek's yells of pain.  
  
The young girl stood as the Russian stood, bringing her hands to her face again as she watched Karolek...this person she thought she knew and trusted, wipe the blood from his weapons on the dead man's shirt. The long knife disappeared again, and she shivered noticeably as Karolek weakly stood up. She noticed the long, bloody gash in his left shirt-sleeve and realized he was injured.  
  
Then Karolek noticed her for the first time. "Clara."  
  
"Oh my God." Clara said, in barely more than a whisper. "What have you done?" She stared, transfixed, at the headless corpse lying on the ground. Clara was, like most of Washington's young inhabitants, too young to remember the carnage which dotted the city during the intense shelling at the end of the war. Her knees trembled and her stomach rebelled, and the young girl found herself sick yet again.  
  
Slowly, Karolek crossed the space to Clara, grabbing his now filthy coat from where it had been dropped on the ground before. He placed a gentle hand on the back of her neck, trying to calm her down.  
  
"Get away from me." Clara spat, flinching away from the touch. "How...knife...sword. You killed him." She said, before repeating the phrase more intently. "You killed him."  
  
Karolek squatted down on his heels, using his sword to balance his weight. Clara scrambled to her feet and moved a few feet away from him. The Russian sighed, running his hand through his unbound blond locks, realizing the trust that had been shattered because Clara had gotten curious. "I had to do it, Clara. If I hadn't killed him, he WOULD have killed ME."  
  
Ignoring the statement, Clara pressed further. "What ARE you?" She whispered. "Men don't...that light...what kind of *thing* dies like that?"  
  
"Immortals." Karolek said softly, standing to his full height. "Men and women who can't die unless they die like you saw tonight." Clara's mouth moved as if to respond, but no words came out. Karolek took advantage of the silence by stepping forward to the edge of the pool of light cast by the street lights. "I'm not an evil man, Clara. I swear to you I wouldn't kill if I didn't have to." He ran his hands through his tangled hair again. "If you can believe that about me, I'll tell you anything you want to know about me."  
  
"How can I believe that?" Clara asked, voice stronger. "How can I reconcile my friend with this bloody murderer I see before me?" For that, Karolek had no answer. "How can I trust anything that you've said? You killed that...that man, and then you CUT off his HEAD!"  
  
Karolek closed the remaining space between he and the girl in an instant, putting his hand over her mouth. "Clara, close your mouth! You can't go around saying that. I have to keep what I am a secret. You can't tell your mother, your sister, your friends, no one. Do you understand?" Clara nodded, squirming under Karolek's tight grip. The Russian released her, picking up his now thoroughly muddy coat from the ground. It was going to need a good cleaning, he decided, before it was fit to wear. He'd have to pull the sheath and the sword rigging from inside it as soon as he could, in case Nellie happened to take offense at the filthy item. He looked up at Clara, sizing up the girl with his eyes.  
  
"If you can't or don't trust me, I'll leave as soon as I can tell your mother I'm going." Karolek said, sliding his sword back into the sheath in his overcoat. As he began to pull the garment on, a light, hesitant hand on his arm stopped him.  
  
"You're hurt." Clara said, simply, looking at the gash on Karolek's upper arm. "Let me clean that up for you."  
  
Karolek, whose arm had long since healed, had to look at his own arm to see what the girl was talking about. The bloody tear in his shirt spoke volumes to her, but to him was little more than a paper cut would be to a mortal. "It's not necessary, Clara."  
  
Clara tugged at his hand, insisting, "Yes it is. There are some bandages upstairs in the kitchen, let me clean that."  
  
"Clara, I'm not hurt." The Russian insisted, trying to put his coat on. "It looks much worse than it is."  
  
"But..." Clara insisted, pulling at the cut in the shirt to get at the wound below. Whatever she planned to say next died on her lips as she saw the unbroken skin beneath the blood. "How?"  
  
"I'm Immortal." Karolek repeated, simply. "I can't get hurt. I don't get sick. I don't age, and I can't die." While that was a gross oversimplification of reality, it would do for the moment. "I was born in Moscow in 1519. I'm 417 years old."  
  
"Four hundred and seven..." Clara slowly trailed off, still amazed at the woundless arm. "How is that possible?"  
  
"I don't know. I wish to God I did." Karolek said softly. "No one knows how it works or who is chosen or why. We just...are." He wrapped an arm around Clara, guiding her back towards the house. "Come on, I'll take you back inside. You're shivering, and while the snow won't kill me, it'll make you sick, and then your mother will kill me."  
  
Karolek took Clara back inside, practically carrying the half-frozen girl up the stairs to the apartment. He removed her snow covered coat and hung it next to the small heater, hoping to dry it out before Nellie woke up in two hours. Clara mechanically stepped out of her boots, before following Karolek's hand through the living room and down the hallway to the kitchen. The Russian prince put a cup of strong coffee in her hands, chiding her to stay put until he could come back from cleaning up outside.  
  
'What's a night without sleep?' He mused to himself, pulling on his own soaked woolen garments. His progress to the door was stopped by a low voice. He turned around to face Clara again, asking, "Da?"  
  
"Is Karolek really your name?"  
  
"It is. When I was born, I was called Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov. I was the crown prince of a Russian province called Moscow." He grinned. "Anything more will have to wait until later. Finish your coffee and get yourself down to bed before your mother sees you're awake."  
  
Clara wasn't ready to let go, yet. "Will you really tell me all about yourself? Your real self?"  
  
"I promise, I'll answer any question you ask, as long as Mrs. Jacobsen is out of earshot."  
  
"Will it be the truth?"  
  
Karolek looked at the sixteen year old with new respect. "As much of it as I know."  
  
'Or rather, as much of it as I can convince you of.' 


	5. Important Background

In Turtledove's universe WWI is fought on a number of fronts in the US, the worst one being the Roanoke front in Virginia. Basically the whole landscape gets blown to kingdom come for advances of only a few hundred yards. The CSA captured Washington DC early in the war and held it for most of it - which is why Clara's father Hal and Nellie were spies for the US authorities. At the end of the war, when the CSA starts losing, they fight like hell to hold on to the city. The US bombs the Confederacy hoping to force them out of the way, and Washington ends up in pretty bad shape.  
  
For the purpose of my imagination, I'm putting the coffee shop in a working class sort of neighborhood, where repairs might not have been made so quickly even during the good times of the 1920's. So the ruined building is more or less in Clara's backyard.  
  
Hopefully the real chapter five will come soon. Unfortunately, I have a real life at a college where professors insist on having papers and projects and things turned in on time, plus a thesis hanging over my head. ~Courtney 


	6. The Price of Answers

Author's Notes: Still don't own 'em. See Chapter 1 for who does.  
  
* Since this is set in an alternate world, the President is still inaugurated in March, not January, even though that changed in 1935.  
  
Chapter 5: The Price of Answers  
  
Karolek slunk back down the stairs to the coffee shop, willing Nellie to remain asleep and not notice all the early-morning hours traffic through her apartment and business. He grabbed a coffee-bean sack from the closet where they were stored, thought better of it, and grabbed two more. He'd have to remember to take the rest to the rag-man in the morning, lest Nellie notice that some of them were missing.  
  
The Russian ran towards the body he'd left with a speed that belied his exhaustion. Having not slept all that well the night before, coupled with the drinks he had earlier, the Quickening, and the mental effort that came with trying to calm down a frightened sixteen year old who'd had her eyes slammed wide open...he couldn't remember feeling so tired since the First Army push through Tennessee that forced the end of the Great War.  
  
Maximiliano Ruiz's body lay sprawled across the rubble-strewn floor, exactly where it had fallen. The Spaniard's lifeless brown eyes stared dully at Karolek's approaching form, as if challenging the Russian to remember the man he'd killed and how he'd done it. 'As if there was any doubt about that.' Karolek thought to himself, gingerly picking up the head by its dark hair and placing it in one of the coffee bean bags. The body was dressed in the two remaining bags. 'If I were a better man, I'd apologize for the lack of a Christian burial, Ruiz. Maybe you'll get to your hereafter anyway.'  
  
Staring at the rapier and dagger, Karolek decided it was better to take them with him, rather than come back for them. The dagger slid easily into the pocket of his coat, wrapped in a handkerchief to keep the naked blade away from the lining. He slid the rapier into his coat, tucking the handle into his belt for lack of a better place to put it.  
  
His gray eyes darted around the shadows, looking for anything else that might tie him to the scene or point to what had happened. The damage from the Quickening didn't look so out of place with the state the building had been in before hand, so he wasn't worried about that. Even the sword marks on the support beam that had nearly gotten him killed looked...natural, sort of. At least they didn't look so unnatural as to call attention to themselves. His sword was going to need some nice care to make up for them, though. He kicked a few rocks out of the way and moved a little bit of snow to hide the blood. The flakes still floating down from the sky would do the rest by the time anyone else bothered to come wandering around the place.  
  
Satisfied, Karolek hoisted the dead Spaniard onto his shoulder, before kneeling down and picking up the other bag that held Ruiz's head. He trotted out of the building and down the back alley quickly, trying to stick to the shadows and generally avoid being seen. After 400 years, he was really pretty good at that.  
  
The Russian's back alley wanderings brought him down to the White House. Even though the President called Philadelphia and Powell House home, soldiers patrolled the grounds regularly in the weeks leading up to the inauguration. Ruiz would be found, and there would be an uproar over the presence of a murder victim so close to the White House, but nothing would be able to connect him to the body except for Clara. And he was quite sure that Clara was awed enough of his sword to keep from saying or doing anything stupid. Silently, and keeping an eye out for the unfortunate conscript in green-gray who drew nighttime patrol duty, he pulled the coffee bags from the body and the head. These he shoved in his pocket, intending to toss them into a trash can and set fire to them on his way home. It was, his father had taught him, better to be paranoid and wrong than too complacent and wrong.  
  
The route back across town was a good deal more direct, now that he could appear to be a regular pedestrian and not someone trying to hide a corpse. The sky in the East was beginning to lighten slightly as he slipped back into the coffee house and crept up the stairs.  
  
Clara was nowhere to be seen, nor was her coffee cup. Karolek thanked the God he wasn't sure he was speaking to anymore that she'd had enough sense to clean up the dishes before going back to bed. For a girl who never had to do any serious sneaking around - and with Nellie that was saying something - that was a good sign. She'd also turned down the dampers on the heater Karolek had placed to dry out her coat a bit. She WAS good, he decided, removing his shoes and walking down the hall to his own room.  
  
The shoes were set in the corner to dry. The Russian pulled off his coat and removed the dagger, his broadsword, and Ruiz's rapier. The Spaniard's heavy notched dagger went into the middle drawer of his dresser. While Clara occasionally would do some of his laundry, if she was feeling magnanimous, she never put the clothes away. Nellie, thankfully, stayed out of his room altogether, though Karolek suspected that there were times when she'd give just about anything to snoop around a bit. Among his few shirts and vests was the best place to hide the weapon that he knew of. The rapier got wrapped up in an old towel that he never seemed to use, before sliding it under the mattress. He'd find a better place to store it tomorrow, after his half-day at the coffee shop.  
  
Now for the coat. Nellie would find the filthy item soon enough, and he wanted to get the refinements he'd added to hide his sword out before she did. Taking a small pocket knife from the nightstand, he started ripping out the seams which held the inner lining to the black wool of the coat. Next he undid the heavier stitches which held the leather shoulder rigging and the sheath for the sword in place, as well as the small counterweight in the left of the coat to make it hang evenly. These went into his suitcase until he needed to repair the coat again.  
  
He took from the closet his "good" coat, a dark gray one that was a little shorter than his black wool one. He wore it to church and sometimes out drinking. It would have to stand in until he could clean the blood (which looked a little like chocolate milk) and mud out of his other overcoat. Luckily, it was already rigged for a sword, saving him considerable sewing time. He quickly sewed the lining into his black coat, before slipping back into the living room and hanging the coat in its place on the rack next to the door.  
  
Back in his room, the ruined shirt went into the suitcase. Nellie didn't snoop, that much he knew, but she was sharp enough that she would surely notice blood on a white shirt. He took off the thin leather sheath which held the dagger at the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades, and dropped it into the nightstand drawer along with the thread he'd just been using. His vest landed on the floor next to his shoes and socks. Bed was looking very, very welcoming right about now.  
  
In retrospect, Karolek would swear he had JUST collapsed face first onto his bed before he heard loud knocking at his door. "Karolek!"  
  
Groaning loudly, the Russian Prince managed to muster the strength to turn over a quarter turn, so that he was lying on his left side and called out, "Come in." '-Please go away, now.-' He'd woken up at 5:30 the day before. An hour of sleep was just not going to cut it.  
  
Nellie stuck her head in the door. "I need you downstairs to get the fires stoked." She frowned at the young man lying on the bed in only his trousers from the day before. "Is that a tattoo?" Her voice practically froze with barely concealed distaste. She remembered too many men with tattoos from her less reputable days before she'd married Edna's father, but hadn't thought Karolek was anything like *them*.  
  
Karolek looked blearily down at his right arm. 'Oh...that.' He thought wearily. On any other day, he probably would have come up with something clever to say about it. He'd been thirteen when he got it, on a visit with his father to Rostov with his father to pay their respects to another local prince. He and his tutor, Fjodor, had been allowed to wander about the city while Konstantin Romanov was occupied. Fascinated by the sailors and their tattoos, young Karolek had insisted on getting one. He'd bulled Fjodor into shutting up because he was a crown prince, and the tattooist into giving him what he wanted because he had money. When Konstantin had found the family crest inked into Karolek's upper arm, he'd given the crown prince a whipping that had him standing for a week. It had seemed like a less-brilliant idea then, but as the years passed he'd grown glad for the small tangible piece of his past.  
  
Yes, any other day he would have come up with something clever to day. Today, he was entirely too tired. "Yes, ma'am. It is. Seemed like a good idea at the time."  
  
Taken aback by his directness, Nellie's righteousness and propriety deflated a bit. "Cover it up and get downstairs." She shut the door with a bang, and the Russian rolled back onto his stomach as Nellie thumped down the hallway.  
  
Clara knocked a good deal softer, before opening the door and peering in. Karolek had fallen asleep again, and she crept slowly across the room to shake him awake. The little bit of action had Karolek fully awake in a second, and he grabbed her wrist as he flipped over again.  
  
"Karolek?" Clara stammered, a little fearful.  
  
"Clara?" Karolek repeated in kind, shaking his head to clear his vision. "What?"  
  
"I could ask you the same thing." The young girl replied, sounding braver than she felt. "Mama wants you downstairs."  
  
Mumbling in Russian under his breath about annoying bosses who kept people from sleeping, Karolek staggered to his dresser to pull out his dagger and a clean shirt. Even half asleep, he could feel Clara's eyes on him. "Do I have something on me?"  
  
"Still a little bit of blood on your left arm." Karolek was inwardly impressed by the calm in her voice. "It's sort of...sort of weird, I guess, to see you walking around like a normal person after last night." Her words caught Karolek, who was scrubbing at the blood with a handkerchief, by surprise. It must have shown in his stance, because Clara rushed to amend her statement. "I just thought, maybe, y'know, you'd be different in the morning because you're Immortal...like it wouldn't matter that you didn't sleep...or maybe you slept better or woke up easier or that lightening thing would do something to you or." She stopped, flushing red. "I'm going to stop talking now."  
  
Karolek grinned at Clara's obvious embarrassment, which did nothing to help the teenager. "We live just like everyone else, Clar." He slipped the cloth straps over his shoulder and shifted the dagger into position before tugging on his shirt. "We just do a lot more of it."  
  
"I guess so." Shuffling her feet, Clara reminded Karolek of his promise to answer her questions.  
  
"And so I shall." The Russian promised again, combing his hair and tying the blond locks out of his face. "After my half-day is over at 1, what say you and I take a walk? Nothing like trying to hide a conversation like this out in plain sight."  
  
"Yeah, sure!" Clara agreed readily, eager to get out of the shop and away from her mother's ever present prying eyes.  
  
"Good deal." He splashed some water on his face, hoping to make himself feel a little more alive. "But first, I have to go appease your mother by actually working today."  
  
Clara giggled, following the Immortal out of the room and down the stairs.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The day in the coffee shop was long and painful. Even though it was only a Saturday half-day, it still felt to Karolek like it was a full twelve hour day. Nellie was acting like she'd been personally betrayed by the double- headed eagle inked on his right arm. Clara was practically giddy at the prospect of getting away from her mother's bad mood for a while. The idea of getting to hear about what sorts of exotic things Karolek must have done in 400 years of living was enough to put her over the edge. Somewhere around the eleven o'clock lull, Karolek told her to stop it lest Nellie think something was going on...which, he supposed, was.  
  
Finally, the two youngsters made their escape. It had taken considerable prodding for Nellie to let Clara go out. The arrival of Clara's sister Edna, her son Armstrong, and her daughter Lorraine helped sway the balance. Edna insisted that Clara needed to get out of the house more, and that Karolek made a fine escort for her while she was out. Nellie was more convinced by the resurgence of the never ending fight between sixteen-year old aunt and thirteen-year old nephew.  
  
Outside in the fresh, cold air, Clara took a deep breath and spun in a few circles, relishing the freedom.  
  
"Happy to be away?" Karolek asked perceptively.  
  
Clara grinned widely. "You could say that." She sighed, stopping her spinning and lacing her arm through Karolek's proffered one. "It's just...that place feels more and more like a prison every year, you know? I can't make a move without Mama watching, and even fewer without her disapproving." She frowned, a gesture which made her look decidedly like her mother, though Karolek wouldn't point it out to her. "I know if Edna and Armstrong hadn't shown up, she would have made me stay for sure. You're lucky not to have a mother watching your every step and telling you what to do all the time."  
  
"I don't think so." Karolek contradicted quietly, faint Russian accent a little thicker. "There are days when I wish I COULD go to my mother...when I miss her and my family very much."  
  
"What was she like? Your mother and your family?"  
  
Lost in long distant memories, Karolek's only answer at first was the gentle smile that fluttered across his mouth. To Clara, it was a striking contrast to the man she'd seen in the deserted building, wielding a sword last night. To say they were as different as night and day would be to understate the case. It was nearly inconceivable to her, that such vastly different people could co-exist within the single body of such a young man...young looking, anyway. She nudged her Russian companion with an elbow. "Come on. You promised to tell me about yourself."  
  
"Huh?" Karolek looked over at her. "Oh, right. What was your question?"  
  
"What were your parents and your family like?" Clara repeated her question patiently.  
  
Karolek nodded to show that he'd heard the question. "My mother was, beyond doubt, one of the kindest people I have ever known. She had a very big heart. I think we had more pets than any other noble family I knew, because she hated to turn away any animal that was hurt." He grinned at the memory. "Her name was Katerina. My father was named Konstantin. He was a good leader, very strong but fair also. He loved literature and books. He made sure I could read Russian, Latin, and Greek from the time I was a boy. He also taught me how to play chess."  
  
"That's nice, I guess." Clara answered, thinking it an appropriate response. She was still stinging from the defeats she'd suffered so easily at Karolek's hands. Chess was never going to be a game she enjoyed. 'God, was that only yesterday?' "Did you have any brothers or sisters?"  
  
"I had two younger brothers and a younger sister. Ondrezj was three years younger than I, Anastasia was four, and Vassili was six."  
  
"Do you have any kids?"  
  
Karolek's jaw tightened at the question, but he kept his voice level. "No."  
  
The flatness of his tone suggested to Clara that she move away from family matters to other arenas. "How did you get to be Immortal, anyway?"  
  
The Russian shook his head in amusement. Leave it to Clara to move from one touchy Immortal subject to another. "Don't know."  
  
"Cheap answer." She said angrily. "I thought you promised to answer my questions."  
  
"I did." He insisted. "I don't know what I got to be Immortal and someone else didn't. I wish to hell I did."  
  
Clara blushed. "Oh. Well then how did you stop getting old? How does it work?"  
  
"Now there's a question I can answer, sort of." He grinned lightly, hoping to get Clara to lay off the hard questions. "Immortals stop aging when they die for the first time, but only if it's a violent death." He held up a forestalling hand. "I was out hunting with Ondrezj the year I was 21. He tripped over a root in the woods on our estate and accidentally fired his crossbow. I was in the way. My father was dead, mother couldn't understand what had happened. Ondrezj and Anastasia convinced her I was evil, and had me thrown out. Left home the next morning. As for how it works...the same thing that keeps me from aging keeps me from getting hurt permanently. The only was Immortals can die is if their heads are cut off...which creates that lightening you saw last night and will keep us just as dead as it would anyone else."  
  
Clara nodded slowly, trying to process the conversation and the information she'd gained last night. "The man you were fighting last night, was Immortal like you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why did he want you dead?"  
  
Biting his lip, Karolek opted for a simple explanation. "That's, well, it's what we do. Immortals hunt and kill other Immortals for the Quickening. The lightening you saw last night. It's a source of power, and some of us want it so badly they'll kill anyone."  
  
"How many people have you killed?"  
  
"I don't keep track." Karolek muttered icily.  
  
"Oh." Clara blushed. "Sorry." She shoved her hands into her pockets and tried to think of another question to ask. The young girl didn't know how long this open mood of Karolek's would last, and she wanted to make the best of it.  
  
As Clara was thinking what to ask, she noticed a swift change come over her friend. His whole body was suddenly very alert, dark gray eyes darting back and forth across the landscape as if he were looking for someone. "Karo, what's wrong?"  
  
Setting a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, Karolek didn't look at her as she spoke. He was still searching for the source of the Immortal signature that he'd felt at the start of the block. "Clara, I want you to go across the street to St. Michael's. Wait for me in the door there."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Don't argue with me Clara!" She stepped back at the harshness of his tone. "Just go there and wait. If I'm not back in an hour I won't be coming back. Go talk to the priest and get him to walk you home."  
  
Clara paled at the instructions. "Won't be back?" She repeated fearfully. "It's another Immortal, like last night. Isn't it?"  
  
"Yes." Karolek replied evenly, still searching with his eyes. "I don't want him to hurt you getting to me. You'll be safe at the church. GO!"  
  
Clara tore across the street at full speed. If Karolek was this worried, she would listen, even through part of her wanted to see another fight like the one she saw last night...assuming, of course, that Karolek would win again. Judging by his voice, he wasn't so sure. She dashed up the stairs of the small parish church and stopped at the arched entrance. She huddled next to the archway, head sticking around towards the street so that she could see. The shivering teenager pulled her red wool coat around her more tightly, waiting tensely for something to happen.  
  
Following the source of the buzz, Karolek put his back to the wall of the apartment building he's been walking past and began to slide slowly towards the corner. Crouching down to his heels, he put his arm up for balance and looked quickly around the corner. He caught a glimpse of a brown-haired man in a long coat, no sword visible, before whipping his head back around the building.  
  
The broadsword was halfway out of its place when he heard a voice, a deep voice with traces of Northern Germany in it, call out his name. "Karolek, wait!"  
  
His hand relaxed, and the sword slid back into place in his coat. 'Oh, if that's who I think it is than what is he doing here?' "Erich?"  
  
The brown-haired man stepped around the corner, well back out of sword range. Erich von Ridesel didn't want to take any chances as to the kind of welcome he might receive. "Hello, Karolek." He said softly. "It's been a while."  
  
"Yes, I suppose it has." Karolek sized up his friend. Erich looked like he hadn't been sleeping a great deal, something the Russian could more than sympathize with. His usually impeccable suit was rumpled and ratty looking. "Was there something you needed, or were you trying to give me an attack?"  
  
Erich blushed slightly. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was hoping to catch you before you went around the corner." He paused. "I need to talk to you."  
  
"If this is about Book, Erich, we said what there was to say the last time we spoke. I can't imagine what more there is to cover."  
  
"It's not about Book." Erich replied. "Well, not really, anyway. I owe you an apology, and I'd like to do it proper. Can you come for a drink?"  
  
The Russian's eyebrows raised at the confession. He liked Erich, would be interested to hear what the man had to say at any rate...but he didn't want to get roped into something he'd regret later on. "I suppose I can come for the drink," he began slowly, "but I have to get Clara home first." He motioned with his hand in the direction of St. Michael's. Erich followed the gesture and saw the small brown head and red coat huddled in the door of the church.  
  
"You thought I was someone coming for you?"  
  
"Didn't want the girl to get in the way if you were."  
  
"Good man."  
  
"Some days." Karolek turned to face the church. "Clara, come on over! It's ok."  
  
The teen required no other urging. Trying to make herself practically a part of the stone entranceway, Clara had been watching the conversation with her stomach doing butterflies. Watching Karolek slide across the wall like that, drawing his sword as he moved...suddenly the idea of watching a fight somehow became a great deal less appealing. And then this stranger with brown hair and ratty clothes appeared, and Karolek seemed to know him well enough to put the sword down. Maybe he wasn't an Immortal after all, or he and Karo were friends? Her relief at being called over was palpable, and she darted quickly back to Karolek's side.  
  
"Erich, this is Miss Clara Jacobsen, a friend of mine. Clara, this is Erich von Ridesel." Karolek introduced his mortal companion to his Immortal friend.  
  
'von Ridesel?' Erich wondered, as he bowed over Clara's hand. 'why von Ridesel? I'm Hauptmann...unless.' "-Does she know?-"  
  
"Yes." Karolek answered pointedly, in English. "Clara, Erich and I will walk you back to the coffee shop. We have some things we need to discuss."  
  
"But..." Clara started to whine, contradicting the grownup image she was trying to present to the two Immortals.  
  
"No, Clara." Karolek said firmly. "This is important. Please understand." The tone of his voice said quite clearly that this was not a request, and Clara grudgingly allowed the two men to walk her back to the coffee shop. She stood in the doorway as the two disappeared into the snow- drifted city, wishing with all her might that she could go with them instead of having to go inside and be nice to Armstrong.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Erich settled into the worn leather chair, enjoying the warmth of the small bar. The Filibuster did most of its best business when the politicians came down from Philadelphia, which wasn't very often. In the meantime, its clientele were mostly middle class craftsmen, small entrepreneurs like Erich, or sailors in port. A number of different sized round tables with inviting leather chairs, were clustered about the floor, which was well polished oak that had seen many years. The bar was of the same material, framed by a large mirror to make the liquor bottles look more numerous. Several men sat on the high stools, nursing drinks and listening to the football game on the wireless. A few armchairs, which were still in decent condition, stood near the fireplace. All of them were occupied. The crowd was mostly well dressed, in suits and homburgs rather than cloth caps.  
  
It was not the sort of place that Karolek, in his current incarnation, would have been made welcome. He was used to soldier's bars from is tour in Kentucky, or the small and dark establishments closer to the coffee house. Karolek Nikailov was unlikely to be impressed with a place unless there were peanut shells on the floor.  
  
Karolek Romanov had no such hang-ups. Erich's presence made him welcome in the environment, even though he appeared to be one of the less-wealthy clients. The other Immortal likely came here often, as the bartender and several patrons greeted him heartily, and a beer appeared in front of him as soon as he sat down.  
  
Shedding his outer coat and his hat, Karolek ordered a vodka. The waiter smiled and departed for the bar to fetch the drink. He was back in a matter of seconds. Sipping at the drink, Karolek raised an eyebrow and commented, "Good service."  
  
"I come here a lot." Erich offered, taking a long swallow of his own beer. "It's good business to keep me, and by extension you, happy."  
  
"Whatever." Karolek took another sip. "That's good stuff. So, what do you want?"  
  
"What, no small talk?" Erich attempted to tease.  
  
"Life is short." Karolek grinned, watching the German try to stifle a laugh. "Seriously, what do you want?"  
  
"To apologize. It was wrong of me to try and get you to solve my problems with Book, no matter how good you are with a sword." Looking down at the table for a long moment, Erich was almost inaudible with the second part of his statement. "Will would have been furiously disappointed with me for even trying."  
  
"I doubt that." Karolek said encouragingly. "And I do accept your apology." He downed the rest of his vodka in a shot and motioned for another one. "As for Book, I have my own problems with him that maybe only a sword will solve."  
  
Erich's eyes lit up, and he stared at Karolek in disbelief. How had this man, so against looking for fights, come to the conclusion that going after Book with a sword was the answer. Whatever it was, Erich wasn't going to question it. He'd decided to go and try Book himself, hoping that maybe luck would step in on his side. That was part of the reason he felt he owed Romanov the apology. The other was that he quite sincerely did feel that Schuyler would have been disappointed with him for attempting to manipulate Karolek as he had a few weeks ago. The prospect of Romanov willingly fighting Jacob Book himself was a tantalizing one indeed. "If I may ask, what brought you to this decision?"  
  
"My father." Karolek answered. "Well, my father and a Spaniard by the name of Maximiliano Ruiz."  
  
"Now I'm quite lost."  
  
"Ruiz was one of us. He found me last night, in the alley back of the coffee house."  
  
Erich nodded thoughtfully. "He was looking for you specifically?"  
  
"Yes." Karolek sipped at his refreshed vodka. "And it wasn't because I'd done anything to him or anyone he knew. He came looking for me because he said I was famous, as a coward who hid among mortals. I didn't really get a chance to think about it until I was making coffee this morning, but maybe he has a point. I've spent a long time trying to hide from what I was. My father told me once, probably when I was seventeen or so, that only cowards hide their heads and hope that their problems will go away. Book isn't going to go away just because I pretend he's not there." He looked at Erich, trapping the man in an intense gray stare. "So I will make a deal with you."  
  
"What deal?"  
  
"I will go to the inauguration of Al Smith with you. If Book finds you before he finds me, you fight him. If he finds me at all, he's not going to be much interested in fighting you even a little bit. But by the end of the day, one of us is going to fight him, and God willing, he'll be dead."  
  
Erich smiled and extended his hand towards the Russian. "That is a deal I can live with."  
  
Karolek shook the offered hand. "Then so be it. Tomorrow, we start dealing with Jacob Book and his head. Today, we drink. You're buying."  
  
"Sure." Erich agreed, not hearing the last sentence before he spoke. "Hey, what do you mean I'm buying?!"  
  
"That's the price you pay for the answers you want to hear." Karolek retorted, downing his second shot and motioning for another. Erich groaned and put his head in his hands, hoping he had enough money on him to cover this drinking session. Skipping straight to dealing with Book sounded like a damn appealing choice right about now. 


	7. Hail to the Chief

Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Products of their respective creators.  
  
I haven't been to Lafayette Park since I was in 8th grade, so I don't remember if there really is a building like I'm putting them in. It's based loosely on one at a park in my hometown.  
  
"I don't like being dead" is borrowed from Forever Knight. Hopefully, Lacroix won't mind. :)  
  
Chapter 6: Hail to the Chief  
  
Saturday, March 15, 1936  
  
If anyone had been there to listen, they would have heard the swift clanking of steel on steel from several yards away. They would have seen two men, one dark haired, one blonde, dancing back and forth with swords in hand. They could have heard the dull sound made by the blade of a broadsword slicing through a forearm, followed by a yelp of pain and the clack of a Crusader's sword hitting the concrete floor.  
  
"Goddammit, Erich!" Karolek yelled angrily, lowering his sword from its fighting position. "What the hell are you doing? I've never seen you fight this badly. My last student didn't even fight this badly the first time we sparred!" Not usually prone to thoughtless outbursts, Karolek's anger at the way the afternoon had been going was starting to come to a head.  
  
"Thanks for the pick-me-up." Erich muttered dryly, removing his hand from the deep wound on his right arm. The gash was healing; in a few moments it would be gone. He stooped to pick up his fallen weapon from the ground, putting the flat of the blade on his shoulder before stalking away to get a drink of water.  
  
Shaking his head, Karolek followed the German to the office. The only sounds in the warehouse were of his own booted feet and the light click of Erich's shoes. Slipping into the office, he leaned his sword against the doorjamb before removing Erich's sword from his hand and setting it aside. Hopping onto the desk, he folded his right leg underneath him and used his left foot to push Erich into the straight-backed chair and hold him there.  
  
The German Immortal struggled against the boot planted firmly on his chest. "Come on, Karo. This isn't funny. We have work to do."  
  
"Yes, we do." Karolek agreed cheerfully. "More than I thought with you fighting like this. It's like you're a newbie all over again."  
  
Groaning, Erich ran a hand through his tousled brown hair. "God, are we back to this again? I swear, you're really quite rotten at bolstering one's confidence, Romanov."  
  
"Be that as it may..." the Russian replied with a sunny, almost innocent grin, "the fact remains. You are two hundred and twelve years old, and you're fighting like you're 30 again. So I ask, what's the problem." Silence greeted him. "It's Book, no?"  
  
"What else would it be?" Again it struck him that for a man twice his age, Romanov seemed perfectly happy to ignore the obvious. He couldn't decide whether it was intentional or just an annoying character quirk. The Inauguration of Al Smith would be on Monday. The whole town was getting ready for the ceremony. The newspapers had been enthusiastically reporting on all of the goings on for weeks, including printing dispatches from the embassies in Philadelphia as to who would be attending the event. Last week, the British Embassy had confirmed that Ambassador Sir Edward Philips would be attending, along with 'his personal aide, James Tudor and several other key staffers.' Fate was finally working in his favor - he knew where Book was and would be, and would at last be able to put his teacher's ghost to rest.  
  
Since the article last week, however, his fighting skills had gradually been slipping away. In the few weeks before their blow-up over fighting Book, Erich had started to become a good challenge for Karolek. Little by little, the sneakiness had been evaporating, leaving a man who was fighting by the numbers. Now, he wasn't even doing *that* well, and he knew it. The German had been hoping that Karolek, who had coming over nightly after his coffee house shift was over since their reconciliation at The Filibuster, would leave him alone about it.  
  
"You know..." Karolek began, speaking slowly to try and choose his words properly. "Fighting on nothing but vengeance and rage will only take you so far before it will get you killed." His pale gray eyes could easily read the disbelief in Erich's eyes. "Seriously. Take it from someone who tried the vengeance route. Raw emotion is an *incredibly* powerful motivator. Maybe the most powerful of all those is rage. But rage makes you sloppy, and in our game, sloppy will get you killed."  
  
Erich cocked his head thoughtfully, relaxing into the chair. Satisfied his friend was not going to make a break for it, Karolek removed his foot and let it dangle over the edge of the desk. Erich's brown eyes studied his friend's face, thinking on the few sentences the Russian Prince had just offered. 'Take it from someone who tried the vengeance route...most powerful of all is rage..." Unwittingly or maybe not, for Karolek had always struck him as someone very calculating when it came to anything related to the Game, bits of annoying ignorance/innocence aside, the Russian had just given him a rather tantalizing tease about his past. "Who were you avenging?"  
  
"My fiancé." Karolek replied softly, leaning back on his arms. "She would have been my third wife two weeks after she was killed."  
  
Intrigued, Erich decided to press further. "What happened?"  
  
Karolek sighed heavily, staring at the gleaming silver hilt of his sword without actually seeing the old and familiar weapon. What happened, indeed. Some days he still found himself asking that question, when something came up that reminded him of Sabine. It happened more now than it had in the past: he saw Sabine's caring nature in the way Clara Jacobsen had pushed aside her anger and fear after watching him take Ruiz's Quickening to tell him that he was hurt and offer to help. Collecting his thoughts, he offered distantly, "-The same song, new singer.-"  
  
"And in English this time?"  
  
"Nothing that should surprise you, given how much you know about me. I was living in Germany in the 1840's. Sabine was the daughter of a minor local noble. A treasure, if ever there was one. Why she agreed to marry me, I'll never know." Karolek shook his head, clearing away cobwebs from memories he tried not to revisit too often. "Another old enemy from my headhunting days looked me up. He saw me out with Sabine, and decided that she had to go before he could do a proper job on me. The Baron found her murdered in her bed the next day. Throat slit ear to ear."  
  
"How did you know that her death was because of you?" Erich asked, thinking back to his homeland. As much as he loved it, he knew that some of the local leaders could be...overzealous in their control.  
  
"I didn't. Not at first, anyway." He looked at Erich and saw understanding in his eyes as to the point he was about to make. "The Baron tended to be heavy handed in his internal dealings and didn't have a great reputation with other nobles. I thought it was entirely possible the enemy was just as easily his as mine." Seeking the comfort of the familiar, Karolek vaulted off the desk and picked up his sword. Standing just outside the door, he started rotating his wrist to change the angle of the blade, switching from hand to hand as he spoke. An old, childhood lesson on loosening his wrists, it now became a calming motion as he told a new friend of an old pain. "The day of the funeral, on my way back to the castle, Saul ben Solomon presented himself before me and confessed to his crimes. I swear I saw red at that moment. I had never wanted to kill a man so badly before in my LIFE, even when I was headhunting for a century."  
  
"Understandable." Erich commented, seeing where Karolek was tying this in with his earlier point.  
  
"I was so angry, I think I could have taken his head with my bare hands and a spoon." Erich chuckled dryly at the image of Karolek attempting to do just that. "I was so angry, I nearly got myself killed in the first five minutes. I overexerted myself on the attack, and he beat me back and stabbed me through the leg. I fell to the ground and rolled out of the way at the last second. I spent twenty minutes fighting on one leg before I was sound enough to go on the attack again." Settling the sword across the back of his neck, he rested his hand on the flat of the blade and looked pointedly at Erich. "I wanted revenge, and in turn almost gave him his. Book won't care about Schuyler or why you're fighting him. All he'll care about is the fight. You can't avenge William if you're dead. It's that simple."  
  
Erich stood, collecting his sword from it's resting place in the doorway. "Point well made and taken. I'll try to calm down." He paused, looking at the blade in his hand. "For Will."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Monday, March 17, 1936  
  
Clara Jacobsen was up early. School was canceled for today, in honor of the inauguration of new President Al Smith. Nellie, already awake and dressing in her own room, heard the noise Clara was making and wondered why her daughter could never be this easy to wake up on days when she really needed to.  
  
Quickly dressing and combing her hair back from her face, Clara went to the small apartment kitchen to find something for breakfast. Whatever it was, it would have to be simple. Edna, along with her husband Merle and their children Armstrong and Lorraine, was coming over in a little less than an hour so the family could get a good spot to watch the Inauguration. Cracking the eggs against the bowl, Clara idly hoped that Armstrong would pick today to act like a twit in public. Then maybe Uncle Merle...or even Karolek, would give him what the fourteen year old brat had coming to him. The girl chuckled at the idea of Karolek, a 400 year old, well armed former prince giving Armstrong a thrashing with a belt.  
  
Clara's pleasant thoughts about what sort of ill her Immortal friend could wreak on her nephew was interrupted by the arrival of her mother. Seeing Clara beating eggs for breakfast, Nellie nodded her acceptance and moved to start the water for morning coffee. "Clara, what's this?"  
  
Pausing to turn and look at her mother, Clara cocked her head as she looked at the small scrap of folded paper. "I don't know, Mama. I didn't notice it there before now."  
  
Nellie unfolded the note, reading the few hastily written sentences written in Karolek's familiar, calligraphic writing.  
"Left early for the Inauguration. Meeting a friend, don't look for me there. Might not be home for supper. Sorry. Karolek."  
  
"What's it say, Mama?" Clara asked, her curiosity getting the better of her as she put some bread on the stove for toast.  
  
"It says that Karolek has gone to see the Inauguration with a friend of his." Nellie answered, putting the water on to boil. She saw her daughter's shoulders slump at the news. The new closeness that seemed to be developing between Clara and Karolek had her more than a little nervous. Yes, Clara was a senior in high school, seventeen and graduating in May. Yes, Karolek was only barely 21. That didn't mean she wanted to encourage any sort of scandalous behavior, and part of that meant reigning Clara in a bit. "Pay attention to the eggs, Clara, they'll burn."  
  
"Yes, Mama." Clara said, darkly. She knew damned well why Karolek had snuck out early to meet Erich, and it had nothing to do with wanting to get their early. Last night, he'd told her that he and the German were going to be looking for an old enemy, and he might not be back afterwards.  
"I don't understand." Clara complained. "Why are you looking for this guy?"  
"Because he's not a nice person, Clara. He killed Erich's teacher. He's killed a lot of people."  
The retort was swift and tight. "So have you."  
Hearing the words struck Karolek like a physical blow. It didn't matter that he knew them to be true - at times, hated himself because they were true. Having them tossed at you by a seventeen year old girl made them sound all the worse. "I don't like it, Clara. This man does. I haven't seen him for 75 years. Erich hasn't seen him for almost 20. If we don't do this now, we might never get a chance to do this again."  
"So...what, then?" Clara began cautiously. She'd seen that Karolek's temperament could change directions like quicksilver, and didn't want to do anything to make him angry with her, or that would make him think she was just an annoying, ignorant little girl. "You'll fight him?"  
"At the Inauguration tomorrow. It will either be me or Erich that does it." He paused. "If it's me that he fights, there's an even chance that I might not be coming back."  
Clara choked a laugh into a cough. "What are you talking about? You're a great fighter. I saw you that night. I've seen you doing all those drills when Mama goes out to get supplies for the coffee house. Why wouldn't you be back?"  
It was the last bit of Immortal reality that Clara couldn't accept. Not that it was a big surprise that she didn't. He'd balked at the idea of fighting to the death when Khan Seh had explained it to him. He was fairly sure that every new Immortal resisted the concept of mortal combat...until they were actually forced to engage in it to keep their heads and their lives. Making mortals, particularly mortal friends and lovers, understand the concept was all the harder. Maybe this was why Khan had warned him against mortal entanglements. "I might not win, Clara." "Of course you'll win." Clara's voice sounded a little less sure. "You're great." "So are a lot of other people, Clar. Not everyone can win all the time." Karolek stood up from his place on the floor, stretching out the abused muscles in his shoulders. He hadn't worked out this much since he'd been a new Immortal, training with Khan. "Not even me." He saw the beginnings of tears forming in Clara's eyes. "Hey, none of that, kiddo." He knelt down and sat back on his heels. The Russian pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the teenager. "I've had a long life. I've been and done a thousand things I never dreamed I'd be able to do in 1540. If I don't win, then it was just my time to go." Clara sniffled and nodded, pretending to understand. "Promise me something?" "Sure." "You'll do everything you can to make it back for supper on time? Mama'll be mad if you're late." Karolek couldn't help but laugh at Clara's request. "I always try. And I will do my level best to make it home for supper. Mrs. Jacobsen is making pork roast, isn't she?" Clara nodded. "Well there you go. Something else to live for."  
  
"Clara, the eggs." Nellie's angry voice cut through the mini-flashback that Clara had been preoccupied with. "They'll be like eating tires. Get them off the stove!" She shook her head, wondering what on earth could be so fascinating to Clara, who was such a picky eater, to take her attention away from cooking.  
  
If only she knew.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Standing at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and 17th street, Karolek read a copy of yesterday's paper while he waited for Erich. The two Immortals had agreed to meet here and walk to Lafayette Park, where the president- elect would take his oath of office and give his speech. The stage for the President and visiting dignitaries to sit on had been erected for a week - and heavily guarded by soldiers since then. Karolek didn't like the idea of not being able to scout out where he was likely to be fighting, but knew that he had to make the best of the situation.  
  
The gradual increase of an Immortal buzz brought his attention away from the paper and down 17th street. Seeing the familiar brown hair of Erich von Ridesel allowed him to relax. Though he'd expected it to be the German, with at least one other Immortal known to be in town, it was best to be careful.  
  
"Guten Morgen, Karolek."  
  
"Dobroye Utro, Erich." The Russian grinned at Erich's good mood. It beat the funk he'd been stuck in for the better part of the week. Tossing his paper aside, he gratefully accepted the cup of coffee that the German Immortal offered him. His eyes widened at the taste. "Your own blend?"  
  
"A little bit of vodka." Erich admitted. "But only a little."  
  
"Whatever." Karolek dismissed, in the manner he'd commonly seen Clara use with her few friends that braved the coffee shop to visit. "Vodka is good any time."  
  
"Shall we?" Erich gestured in the direction of Lafayette park down the road. "We do want to get good seats."  
  
"So we do." Karolek said with a chuckle. "Though I imagine it won't matter much in the grand scheme of things."  
  
"No, I guess not." Erich considered. "You sound like a man with a plan."  
  
The Russian grinned. "Always. Don't take this the wrong way, Erich, but you need to get away from me."  
  
"I beg your pardon."  
  
"No, at the park. My plan is for you to be at one end of the dais, me at the other. Since there have been no seating plans available, and the soldiers are keeping everyone away from the park until today, I don't know where the British ambassador is sitting. Meaning I don't know where Book will be, either. With us split up, there's a better chance that he'll find one of us." Tossing the paper cup into a trash bin, Karolek continued, "If he sees you, motion him off stage somehow. I don't know where there is to fight around here, but you're a smart fellow."  
  
Erich laughed at that. "You're getting better at this positive comments thing, Karo."  
  
"Swell." Karolek said with a grin, pushing a stray lock of blond hair out of his light gray eyes. "I'm not a complete bastard all the time, Erich. And I have had students before."  
  
"Have you?" Erich repeated, following Karolek into the park. The soldiers working the entrances had the two Immortals open their coats and turn out their pockets, to be sure they weren't carrying guns. The two men complied, glad for the cold snap that let them wear heavy coats to conceal their swords and other weapons. Waved past, Erich continued his question. "How long ago?"  
  
"Back in the 1870's. Hawaiian by the name of Kamani. Not bad, all things considered."  
  
"I'll know to avoid him, then." Erich answered. "That was only one."  
  
The Russian chuckled. "So it was. This is not pry-into-Karo's-past day. This is Inauguration day."  
  
"Good grief." Wading through the early crowds, Erich motioned to stage left. "I'll go stake myself a spot up front."  
  
"I'll head yonder." Karolek cocked his head in the direction of stage right. "Keep an eye on the crowds, and watch your head."  
  
"You too." Erich clasped Karolek's forearm, Karolek doing the same in return. "If God wills, I will see you after the Inauguration at the Capitol end of the Reflecting Pool."  
  
"If God wills." Karolek nodded. The German melted into the crowd, leaving the Russian prince to stake his own spot and wait.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
To the world, John Tudor appeared to be the perfectly attentive aide. He was standing just off the stage, leather folio held to his chest by crossed arms, eyes focused in the newly installed Vice President, presently giving his speech. In reality, Jacob Book was thoroughly bored. The new Vice President was about as exciting as a bowl of oatmeal, and therefore well suited for one of the most meaningless jobs in contemporary politics. 'Not altogether different from being a second son,' the 303 year old Brit mused, 'who only gets in on the power if big brother meets an untimely demise. How the damnyankees ever managed to build a political system like this, God only knows.'  
  
After listening to a twenty minute speech, the likes of which made eternity seem longer, the Vice President wrapped up. Jacob applauded politely, deciding to stretch his legs a bit by walking to the front of the cordoned off area designated for staffers of officials. He wanted to see if Sir Edward was as bored by the proceedings as he was. Jacob had argued against going to the Inauguration in the first place, but the government had insisted it was important to maintain civil relations with the United States.  
  
As he reached the barrier, Jacob stopped dead. Thrumming through the base of his skull, the sensation of another Immortal. In a crowd like this, the other would be almost impossible to find. He backtracked to the steps to the stage, climbing a few of them so that he could see over the heads of the people now cheering the swearing in of President Smith.  
  
The first sweep of the crowd, he didn't see anyone actively searching for him. Everyone was quiet, listening to Justice Harper give Smith the oath of office. On the second sweep, he spotted the misplaced stillness in the crowd.  
  
A pair of gray eyes, staring directly at him. Wisps of blond hair blowing in the slight breeze, fluttering across a pale face. The man brought a gloved hand up to his face, tucking the strands of hair away, and nodded once at Jacob.  
  
Karolek Romanov. The murdering sonofabitch who had killed his teacher and made a fool out of him, staring him down from the crowd of workers. His chance for revenge, delivered right to him.  
  
Jacob descended the steps quickly, looking for one of the soldiers working on guard duty. A young corporal was standing at loose attention, Springfield rifle in hand, at the edge of the clearing. "Corporal." Jacob called quietly.  
  
"Yes, sir?" The corporal, a young boy with dark black hair and a flat Midwestern accent looked over at Book, wondering what one of the British officials wanted with him.  
  
"Can you leave your post long enough to go fetch a man from the crowd for me?"  
  
The corporal raised his eyebrows at the request. "He looking to cause trouble for us, sir?"  
  
The Briton rapidly shook his head, causing his red hair to fall into his eyes. Irritatedly pushing it away from his face, he explained, "No, no. He's not trouble." But what was he? "He's one of our staff, must have gotten caught into the crowd. He should be back here, Sir Philips will want to speak with him. Wouldn't want to get him in trouble." The corporal was softening, but wasn't prepared to go just yet. "There's a five in it for your trouble." That was the magic word.  
  
"Sure, sir, I'll go get him. Point him out to me, will ya?"  
  
"He's about four rows of people back, right at the end of the stage." Jacob said, leading the corporal over to the gate. "Right there, in the gray coat with the long blond hair."  
  
"Sure." Corporal Wesley nodded, catching Karolek's eye and motioning him up to the gate. The soldier's motion had the crowd splitting slightly, enough to allow Karolek to slip up to where Book and Wesley were standing. "You with him?"  
  
"Sure am." Karolek answered the corporal, affecting a British accent. To anyone who'd ever been to England, it would have sounded incredibly fake. To an 18 year old boy who'd never left home before joining the army, it sounded real enough.  
  
"Right. Hop over." Wesley watched as the blond stranger easily hopped over the military railing to the staff side. It seemed to him like there was something odd in the flow of the man's jacket...he shook the notion off, deciding he was just tired from standing guard last night. He accepted the five dollar bill from the red-haired aide, before returning to his post to listen to the rest of President Smith's address.  
  
Walking away from the stage towards the shuttered gazebo at the other end of the park, Jacob and Karolek looked like friends to any casual observer. It would have taken a hard look at the faces of the two well-schooled warriors to see that they were restraining some heavy emotions.  
  
"How've you been, Jacob?" Karolek asked dryly as they began descending the slope that hid the gazebo from the rest of the park, including the big Inauguration crowds.  
  
"Oh, wonderful." Jacob replied acidly. "I believe swell is the word they use nowadays? Or is it still 'bully' after that abominable Teddy Roosevelt."  
  
"Swell will do."  
  
"So kind of you to ask, though. I wouldn't have thought you capable."  
  
Rolling his eyes at the hostility masked in civility, Karolek thought it better to keep quiet. Jacob deftly broke the padlock on the door, motioning for Karolek to precede him into the room. "I think not," the Russian quietly growled. "You go first."  
  
Jacob smiled ferally, turning so that his back was to the open door, before taking several slow, deliberate steps into the building. He hit the switch for the overhead lights, which flickered several times before finally coming to life and casting a dim yellow glow over the room. It was cluttered with maintenance tools. Several large lawnmowers stood against the far wall, next to a chest which presumably held pruning shears and things of that nature. Snow shovels were leaning closer to the door, next to a small pile of bags with rock salt and sand in them for the park paths. Whoever managed the place had left the Immortals with a space about six feet by six feet in which they could easily fight without tripping over things.  
  
Karolek closed the door behind them, never taking his eyes off of Jacob. He drew his broadsword from his coat, shedding the item and draping it over the salt bags. Book did the same, producing a schiavona from his own jacket, which was relegated to hanging from one of the lawnmowers.  
  
"Out of curiosity, Karolek, where have you been hiding of late?" Jacob asked Karolek, who was twirling his sword by moving his wrists, the same action he'd been doing when he told Erich about Sabine.  
  
"I haven't been hiding anywhere, Jacob." He moved his sword into the ready position, darkened eyes locked on his opponent. "My name was right there for you to find anytime you wanted. Let's do this."  
  
"As you wish." Jacob answered, bringing his own sword up to meet Karolek's.  
  
It was clear from the first parry that Grayson had done a magnificent job with Jacob. Compared to where the Brit had been when Karolek first met him 250 years ago, Grayson was owed all the credit for Jacob's still being alive. The two Immortals exchanged a series of quick thrusts and parrys, testing each other's skill without over committing. Neither really wanted to be the one to strike first.  
  
After a few minutes of dancing around each other, Jacob's long-simmering desire for revenge fueled him to make the first really aggressive move. He lunged forward, putting more power into his strokes, forcing Karolek to back up several feet in defense. Book managed to get through the Russian's guard and put a decent sized nick in his right arm.  
  
Karolek was so angry he'd have spit on himself if it were possible. That was just the sort of move he'd warned Erich about so many times, and now here he was victim to it himself. Redoubling his efforts, he went on the attack and forced Jacob back to the center of the old gazebo. He launched a few semi-attacks with his left arm, wanting to give his right a chance to heal up. This Jacob wasn't likely to fall into traps usually set for the inexperienced, so the Russian prince was going to have to wait him out.  
  
Jacob parried the half-hearted attacks easily, trying to find the move that would allow him to return to the offensive. Defense wasn't a position he was used to finding himself in any more. He'd developed a reputation for being aggressive, netting a few strong heads in the past few decades, including William Schuyler and Marius. Preoccupied with the offensive, he wasn't prepared for the fourth of Romanov's halfhearted attacks to turn into a bona fide one. He frantically tried to regain the upper hand. Karolek executed a magnificent spin move, following it with a backwards thrust which caught Jacob through the shoulder. He hissed in pain, pulling back away from the attack.  
  
The fight seesawed back and forth like that for the better part of half an hour. Book would get a cut in, Karolek would recover before dealing one of his own. Both men were bloody, as was the floor and the once gleaming silver of their blades. Both Immortals were also starting to tire from the furious flurries of combat and the repeated blood loss.  
  
For some people, fatigue makes them slow and ineffective. For others, it galvanizes them into a more focused effort.  
  
Jacob moved forward to start another offensive. Karolek allowed Book to catch his sword in the guard of the schiavona, moving forward into a clinch. He grabbed Jacob's blade hand at the wrist with his right hand, pulling the Brit's sword hand across his body. As Book followed the momentum, Karolek twisted his wrist so that his broadsword blade slid away from the guard and back into free air. He used his knee to force Book to stumble, before letting go with his right hand, spinning and cutting Jacob through his right flank and across most of his back, deep enough to slice the spinal cord.  
  
Book melted to the ground, legs no longer able to hold up his weight. His eyes widened, knowing that he'd been dealt a mortal blow. The next thing he knew, his sword arm had been cut, deeply, and he dropped his sword to the ground.  
  
The Russian prince kicked the blade back from Book's hand, putting his own sword to the Briton's neck. "You shouldn't have messed with Schuyler, Jacob. He was a good man with good friends. And you shouldn't have messed with ME."  
  
"Pity you can't say the same, bastard." Jacob rasped back. "End it." Karolek complied, drawing his sword back and neatly severing the man's head.  
  
"Maybe not, but I do have good friends." Bone-weary with exhaustion, Karolek stepped back away from the body and picked the bloody schiavona from the floor. He fell to his knees on the ground as the blue-white mist of Book's Quickening began to swirl around him. His second Quickening in as many weeks...there would be hell to pay for this later, but as the bolts of energy started to hit him, he didn't really care.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
Back at the Inauguration, Erich felt a light tingle go down his spine...almost as if a large quantity of energy had been released nearby...like a Quickening. He thought he saw lights down beyond the stage, where some new Socialist functionary was praising the new President. Maybe it was his imagination. Fighting his way out of the crowd and out of the park, he made his way for the reflecting pool. He only hoped that things had gone well.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
Further back from the stage, sitting in the bleachers with her mother and the rest of her family, Clara Jacobsen would swear that she saw lights in the distance too. Then Armstrong threw an elbow into her ribs, and she responded by stepping down hard on his toes.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
No matter how long he lived or how many heads he wound up taking or had taken, Karolek would never and had never gotten used to the Quickening. No human body, he'd long decided, even an Immortal one, was meant to take bolts of lightening like that. They hurt like hell, but at the same time were uniquely energizing. As a former headhunter himself, he could see how people got used to the rush. He'd been courting death as a hunter, but most others were motivated by the surge that came from taking on so much energy. It could be as addictive as opium or alcohol if you were of the right mind.  
  
Moving slowly, he stood up and surveyed the damage. Two of the lawnmowers were toast, and some scorch marks were evident on the walls and the floor. The lights in the ceiling were wrecked, and in looking down he could see that so was he. A dozen bloody cuts marred the arms and torso of his blue shirt, and his striped silver vest was purple from the blood.  
  
Taking Book's scarf from where it hung on a third lawnmower, he wiped the blood from his broadsword and the schiavona. His piece went back into the scabbard, Book's into his belt as he'd done with Maximiliano Ruiz's rapier not two seeks ago. He shrugged his coat over the mess he'd made of his clothes, buttoning it up all the way so the mess was covered. He pulled the leather band out of his hair and combed it back from his forehead with his fingers.  
  
After a last check to see that nothing remained that would show he'd been at the building, he slipped outside into the spring air. The padlock was set into place so that it looked shut.  
  
Karolek's practiced gray eyes saw that a few people were beginning to slip away from the Inauguration. That meant that Smith was probably done speaking. Rather than heading back towards the crowds, he headed for the other end of Lafayette park. There, he caught a taxi for the short ride to west Potomac park and the reflecting pool.  
  
The cabbie, an immigrant from somewhere in eastern Europe, dropped him off as close to the pool as he could get. The man sensed that Karolek was in no mood to talk, and pocketed the fare without a word. Karolek headed for the pool, hands shoved in his pockets and a stiffness about his walk as he tried to work off the after-effects of the fight and the Quickening.  
  
Shortly before reaching the pool, the sense of another Immortal hit him. He grinned lightly as he saw Erich almost melt in relief.  
  
~~~~~~~~~  
  
Erich made quick progress once he got out of the Inauguration crowds. At the edges, people were starting to drift away, having seen the new President speak. He joined in the bustle and made his way directly down 17th street to the reflecting pool. He found a bench near the edge which faced back towards the road and sat down, resigned to having to wait. He decided that if Karolek didn't show in about an hour, he would go back to where he'd seen the lights and check to see how the Challenge had turned out. If Karolek was dead, he'd hunt Book no matter what it required.  
  
The German's patience was rewarded when, twenty minutes later, he saw a figure in a gray coat with loose, shoulder length, pale blond hair. As the figure drew closer, the familiar tingle of an Immortal sensation flooded across the back of his neck. It was Karolek. Erich let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, suddenly relaxed.  
  
Karolek closed the distance to Erich's bench, feeling better with the movement. As he reached the destination, he was surprised when Erich embraced him with a strong hug.  
  
Drawing back, Erich's brown eyes met Karolek's gray ones. "Danke schoen, Karolek."  
  
Karolek sighed heavily. "To be perfectly honest, Erich, I didn't do it for you." He looked down at the ground. "Jacob's dead. Schuyler's avenged. Be happy with that."  
  
"I assure you, I am." Erich said hastily. "And I will thank you again, all the same." Karolek nodded wearily, saying nothing else. "What now?"  
  
"I think maybe it's time to leave town. Washington is too crowded." The Russian confessed.  
  
Erich nodded. "I suppose you are right. I've been contemplating leaving myself. Where will you go?"  
  
"West, I think. There's plenty of land out there where a man can be by himself if he wishes." Romanov glanced towards the south, where well beyond the horizon the specter of the Confederate States and their new, fanatical President lay. "The world will be back to war by the end of the decade. I'd like to get my peace while I still can. Where will you head?"  
  
"I think maybe to the Caribbean." Erich responded. "It's warm there. Somewhere little, remote, that no superpower pays attention to. Trinidad, maybe, or Barbados." Shuffling lightly on his feet, he asked a question. "Will I see you again?"  
  
"Twenty years." Karolek answered. "July 4. There's a pub in New York that a friend of mine raves about. MacMartin's, on 40th street."  
  
The German laughed. "That, my friend, is a date I will remember." He extended his hand. "Good luck to you, Karolek Konstantinovich Romanov."  
  
"And to you, Erich von Ridesel. Keep your head." The two men shook, before Karolek turned and walked away from the pool. Erich stood and watched him leave, hair and coat moving in the brisk breeze of a Washington spring.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
EPILOGUE, two weeks later  
  
"Mama says you're going." An accusing voice commented from the door.  
  
"Your mother would be correct." Karolek answered, putting a shirt into his suitcase.  
  
"You didn't say anything."  
  
"I was hoping to avoid having this very conversation with you, Clara." The Immortal responded dryly, watching as the girl came in and sat down on the edge of his bed. "But please, come in, sit down."  
  
Clara glared at him. "Why are you going?"  
  
Karolek looked at the spitfire girl. "Two beheadings in two weeks? The cops are on edge, Clara. People saw me leave with Book from the Inauguration, and people saw me leaving the gazebo. It's only a matter of time before they come looking for me. The death penalty won't kill me dead, but it will put me out of commission for quite some time. I don't like being dead. It's rather annoying, actually." He sighed, putting some more clothes into his suitcase. "Better I go before they find me."  
  
"You could stay." Clara insisted.  
  
"I can't." Karolek said sharply. "And you know it."  
  
Deflated, Clara answered reluctantly, "Yes, I know it." She sat silently as Karolek finished packing his suitcase. Two long, bulky parcels lay on the bed next to the suitcase, as did the Russian's carefully laid out overcoat. "Where will you go?"  
  
"First to New York, to see a friend." Karolek replied, snapping the locks shut on the case. "Then west. To Montana, maybe, or up to Alaska. Somewhere. I haven't really decided, yet. I suppose it depends on what mood strikes me when I leave Connor's."  
  
"Well, have a good trip." Clara said sincerely. "Will you send me a postcard?"  
  
Karolek grinned. "I think I will, on both accounts." He picked up one of the parcels. "Before I go, I have a present for you."  
  
"For me?" The teenager in Clara returned instantly. "Really? What is it?"  
  
"Something your mother can't see. Is she still downstairs?"  
  
"Uh-huh." Clara chuckled. "She's still training Gloria."  
  
Karolek handed Clara the lighter of the two long packages. Clara took it eagerly, surprised by its weight. She untied the string and unfolded the paper, revealing a rapier with a glittering gold hilt and a smaller, plainer dagger. "For me?"  
  
"Yes." Karolek sat down next to her on the bed. "They belonged to the man who helped me introduce you to a secret world you never dreamed existed. You can sell them if you want. They'll fetch 100,000 dollars on the auction block in the condition that they're in. I hope you'll keep them as a reminder of what you've learned in the past few months."  
  
"I...I will." Clara ran a hesitant finger down the length of the blade. It gleamed in the sunlight slanting into the room. It seemed so long ago that she'd stood in the snow and watched a 150 year old Spaniard try and kill her 400 year old friend...watched that blade flash red with Karolek's blood...watched the electrical storm that was a Quickening. She'd learned a lot, grown up a lot in the past few weeks and months, and she knew it. "It's pretty, in it's own way."  
  
"That it is, Clara, that it is." He grinned. "Just keep it hidden from your mother, da?"  
  
"Da." Clara giggled. Impulsively, she threw her arms around Karolek's neck and hugged him tightly. "Thank you. It's my first real adult present." She leaned back. "How do you say thank you in Russian?"  
  
"Spasiba"  
  
"Spasiba." Clara repeated. "And not just for the sword. For everything...being my friend, talking about Mama and Armstrong with me...for telling me about the real you."  
  
"Clara, it was a real pleasure." Karolek assured her. "You're a good kid. I think you'll make a smart adult, no matter what Nellie says." He stood, pulling on his jacket and picking up his suitcase and the flat case that held Book's sword. He planned to put it in storage in New York. He placed a friendly kiss on Clara's cheek, saying, "Have a good life, Clara Jacobsen. Be happy."  
  
"I will." Clara promised, staying on the bed as she watched Karolek walk out of the room.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Where are you headed?" The portly, balding businessman in a pinstriped suit who was sitting next to him on the Union Station bench asked.  
  
"New York." Karolek replied, letting his accent come through.  
  
"You have family there?" The businessman asked, hearing Karolek's accent.  
  
"Nyet." Was the answer. "A friend who might as well be family." He looked over at the man. "Karolek Nikailov."  
  
"Bratton Gregory." He extended his hand to the young man, who shook it firmly. "It's nice to meet you Karolek Nikailov."  
  
"Likewise."  
  
"You have work waiting for you in New York?" Bratton asked.  
  
"No."  
  
Bratton took a card out of his wallet, handing it to the Immortal. "Corporate finance. Impressive."  
  
"Thanks." Bratton smiled smugly. "With all the federal money out there, I think we're making real progress. Come and see me when you get to New York. We can always use sharp young men."  
  
The call for the New York train sounded over the loudspeaker. "I appreciate the offer, Bratton, but perhaps you should save it for someone who can really use it." Karolek shouldered his back and picked up the sword.  
  
"I always seem to land on my feet."  
  
THE END  
  
A.N.: Thank you to the people who took the time to read and review this. It's my first published fan fiction, and I'm thrilled by the responses.  
  
I have an idea for a sequel to "The Russian Prince" that follows Karolek after he leaves Connor in New York. Is anyone interested? 


End file.
